


anywhere you go (i'll follow you down)

by countthestars



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: 'enemies' in the loosest of terms tbh, Alternate Universe - College/University, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fake Marriage, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-21
Updated: 2016-09-07
Packaged: 2018-07-25 21:48:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 52,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7548397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/countthestars/pseuds/countthestars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A wrinkle creases the skin between Harry's eyebrows. “That's not – there are so many reasons that wouldn't work. I'd need someone willing to marry me, first of all.”</p>
<p>“You could marry me.” The words are out of Liam's mouth before he can second guess himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. in which harry and liam commit fraud

**Author's Note:**

> two days ago i decided i wanted to try writing chaptered fic cos i thought it would make me more motivated to write. here's hoping i write the rest of this thing just as quickly.
> 
> the tags/rating reflect the overall story and i think i've included everything relevant, but i'll add additional tags/warnings as needed with each chapter. there won't be any sort of posting schedule (sorry), but the whole thing is plotted with a lot of detail so... hopefully regular updates? this is unbeta'd/britpicked because i'm impatient. sorry about that.
> 
> title from 'follow you down' by the gin blossoms

“Liam, this is the last September you'll ever be able to go out on a Thursday in your uni career. Come out with us. This isn't up for debate.”

While Liam's been glued to his laptop screen, the words to the paper he's meant to be writing coming with painful slowness, the student union has steadily emptied out. There's only a handful of people left, actually, including an impatient Louis, bouncing on his toes as he stares Liam down over the edge of his laptop.

“C'mon,” he says again, wheedling. “This is boring. I'm bored. The boys are already at the pub. Let's go.”

Liam glances between his laptop screen and Louis. The cursor blinks at him from a half-finished sentence, but Liam's lost his train of thought. It wasn't a particularly good one, he knows that much.

“Next month,” he says, clicking the save icon, “are you going to tell me it's the last October I'll ever have to go to class hungover? The last November I'll ever get to hold Niall's legs up for a kegstand? The last December--”

“Yes, Liam, that's the general idea,” Louis interrupts, shutting Liam's laptop. “Senior year, I want to go out with a bang. This time next year we'll have to be responsible adults, paying bills and shit.” He shudders. “ _Terrible_.”

“You pay bills now,” Liam reminds him, pushing out of his seat and stretching his arms over his head. His spine cracks with a few loud pops and Louis grimaces, nose wrinkling up. Biting his lip against a smile, Liam starts packing up his computer and books, shoving them into his backpack.

“No, Harry pays the bills,” Louis corrects. “I give him my checkbook and he just takes care of it.”

Pausing with the zipper half undone, Liam stares at him. “Louis. Are you serious? Harry just writes checks out for you?”

Louis shrugs, unconcerned. He pulls a bag of Doritos out of nowhere – he's wearing skinny jeans and a tank that hangs off his boney shoulders, seriously, where was he _keeping_ those – and shoves a handful in his mouth. “He makes me sign on the line, but he puts all the numbers and stuff in for me. What? _What?_ ”

“I didn't say anything!”

Louis narrows his eyes at him. There are orange crumbs dotting the corner of his mouth, and when he licks his lips, pink tongue darting out, Liam drops his gaze back to his zipper, tugging on it roughly.

“Not with words, maybe,” Louis says, poking Liam in the chest. “You didn't need to. Your face said it all.”

Shaking his head, Liam gives one last pull on the zipper, finally getting his backpack closed. “How did you survive before he transferred here? I distinctly remember you having lights in your flat sophomore year.”

“Those were darker times. Metaphorically, I mean. We did manage to keep the lights on, even without Harry, but my god, Liam, at what cost.”

Swinging his backpack over one shoulder, he follows after Louis towards the doors of the union. Outside, the sinking sun gilds everything a brilliant reddish orange, setting the skyscrapers ablaze. Liam falls into step with Louis, bumping his shoulder accidentally-on-purpose. “The two of you are creepily co-dependent, I hope you know that.”

“Aww, Lee-yum,” Louis says, pushing up on his toes so he can wrap an arm around Liam's neck, trying to pull him into a headlock, maybe. It's hard to say what exactly he's hoping to accomplish, since Liam doesn't fold, and Louis has to hang off him, walking on his tiptoes to keep up when Liam pushes through the door. “Are you jealous?” he adds, panting a little.

“No,” Liam says shortly. This is a stupid topic; he doesn't know why they're even talking about Harry. He ducks his head, shrugging Louis' arm off him. “Can we swing by my place first? I don't want to take my computer with me.”

“Sure thing, Payno. I'll just text the boys and tell them that we'll running late, and it's all your fault.” Pulling his phone from his pocket, he cackles as he ducks the soft punch Liam throws his way. “Gotta be quicker than that!” he crows.

The strap of his backpack digs into his shoulder, and Liam readjusts it, jostling his laptop. “What did I do to deserve a best mate like you?”

Louis' grin is vicious, a blow that finds its mark. “Guess you're just blessed, bro.”

Liam's flat is only a few blocks out of the way, a little studio apartment not far from campus. They dodge congested New York traffic, the jarring honk of car horns as familiar a soundtrack as Louis' bright laugh. When they reach the flat, taking the stairs because the lift is out of service again, Louis crowds him, hanging over Liam's back as Liam tries to slot the key into the lock.

“Have you heard of personal boundaries?” Liam asks as he finally gets the door unlocked, hinges swinging open with a low whine. Louis just laughs directly in his ear, his stubble tickling Liam's cheek, before sliding down off of Liam. He makes himself comfortable on Liam's saggy old couch while Liam deposits his backpack on the floor, heading to the bathroom to brush his teeth.

“They're waiting on us,” Louis reminds him when Liam emerges, wiping toothpaste off his lip with the back of his wrist. For reasons Liam can't understand, he's shifted so his head is hanging off the cushion upside down, his knees hooked over the top of the couch. “Do you really need to primp so much?”

“It's called basic hygiene, Lou.” He walks over to his closet, flicking through the rack of hanging clothes shoved inside. “Have you seen my plaid shirt?”

He doesn't even have to see Louis' face to know he's rolling his eyes. “Which one? You only own about a hundred. C'mon, just wear that. You look fine.”

“The blue one, with the – found it!” Liam says, digging the shirt from the bottom of his closet. It's a bit wrinkled from being stuffed in a laundry basket, but Liam's fairly certain it's clean. He sniffs it, just to be sure, and Louis snorts.

“Who's lacking basic hygiene now?”

“Shut up,” Liam says, pulling the shirt on over his tee and doing up the buttons. He pats his pockets to make sure he has his phone and his wallet. “Okay, I'm ready.”

Louis rolls over so he's right-side up again. His face is a little flushed from all the blood rushing to his head, but his eyes are a clear, glittering blue. “Finally. Let's go.”

-

The pub is packed when they arrive, the Thursday night crowd bursting at the seams. Louis shoves his way through the melee, elbows flying, and Liam follows in his wake, staying close on his heels before the path is swallowed up again. The boys have claimed their usual booth in the back, and Harry's face lights up when he sees them.

Well, when he sees Louis, anyway. Harry pats the open seat next to him and Louis slots in, beaming. Before Liam can hover awkwardly for more than a second or two, Niall scoots over on the other side of the table, pressing Zayn into the wall so Liam can fit, too. He settles onto the bench, eyeing the two beers Niall's got in front of him rather than the scene across the table. Louis might be whispering in Harry's ear, but it seems to involve a lot more tongue than Liam thinks is strictly necessary.

“Is one of those for me?” he asks hopefully, turning towards Niall. He's not sure he's up for fighting his way back through the crowd to order a drink.

“I could be convinced,” Niall says, but nudges one of the glasses over to Liam without any actual convincing, cheek dimpled.

“Oi. And where's my drink, then?” Louis demands loudly.

“Relax,” Zayn says, not looking terribly put out, despite being folded up in the corner of the booth. “Harry promised to grab the next round. He'll get you something.”

“What do you want?” Harry drawls, tucking his long hair behind one ear. Unlike Liam, he hasn't bothered with most of his buttons, and his shirt gapes as he hunches forward, his inked chest on display. Liam drags his fingers through the condensation on his glass, a swirling pattern blooming from his fingertips.

“Just get me whatever's cheapest.” One arm draped over the back of the seat, Louis doesn't bother sliding out to let Harry up. Anyone else would've shoved at him until he budged, but Harry just crawls over him, making a production of it, hips swaying and knee knocking into the wood when he slips a little. Niall laughs, and even Zayn looks amused, a quirk to his lips despite shaking his head. Liam takes a long pull of beer.

Niall throws a balled up napkin at Harry's head once he's finally managed to climb to his feet, and Harry looks at him expectantly. “Get us some fuckin' chips while you're up, would ya, Haz? Haven't eaten all day, I'm starving.”

With a wink, Harry replies, “You got it, Niall.”

“That's my boy,” Louis says, and Liam hides his snort by taking another drink.

A solid fifteen minutes go by with no sign of Harry's return, and they're debating sending out a search party when he finally wanders back, somehow holding five drinks at once, a plate of chips balanced on his forearms.

“Shit, Harry, you could've asked for help,” Zayn says as Harry tries to set down all five glasses at the same time, brow furrowed and bottom lip caught between his teeth. Niall heroically grabs the plate of chips from him and settles it in the middle of the table, grabbing a handful and shoving them all into his mouth at once.

“Disgusting,” Louis says with approval. Niall's mouth curves into what might charitably be called a smile, cheeks puffed like a hamster's. Once the drinks have been distributed, Louis leans back, making Harry crawl over him again in order to sit back down.

“Really, Lou?” Zayn asks, one eyebrow ticking up. It's a neat trick. Liam wishes his eyebrows were half as cooperative.

“What? I don't like sitting on the inside. What if I have to pee?”

“Then you ask them to move like a normal person,” Niall cuts in, swallowing his mouthful of chips. “Here, I'll show ya. Liam, would you please move? I need to take a wee.”

Grabbing his drink, Louis says, “What a lovely demonstration.”

Liam climbs out of the booth to let Niall out, civilized person that he is, and Louis darts his hand out to grab Liam's wrist, stilling him. “Wait! Wait, we need to toast first!”

“Are you serious, Lou? I wasn't joking. I really have to wee.”

“Shut it, Nialler. Everyone grab a drink, get 'em in the air.”

Obediently, the five of them raise their glasses. The light overhead glints off Louis' hair, shinning like a crown. “To senior years, boys,” he says with the bravado of a king, drunk on power. “This one is gonna be the best year yet. I can feel it.”

“To senior year,” they all echo, glasses clinking. Louis, bastard that he is, bumps his glass hard into Niall's, beer sloshing over the rim. Niall swears, sticking his fingers in his mouth.

“You're such an asshole, Lou,” he says, but he's laughing. They all are, riding the high of the last Thursday in September they'll ever go out in their uni careers.

Well, that's not quite true, Liam realizes, as Niall slips past him on his way to the bathroom and he sinks back onto the bench, hand curled around his beer. Harry's slouched in his seat, half his face shadowed. It's not dark enough to hide the flat line of his mouth.

A flying elbow from Louis catches him square in the ribs – probably on purpose, knowing Louis – and Harry hunches forward, grabbing his side like it hurt. When the light hits his face, though, his wide mouth is pulled back in a grin, his eyes happy crescents. Louis smacks a kiss to his temple, and Harry presses into the touch like an affectionate kitten.

Liam chugs the rest of his drink.

-

One round turns into several rounds, and before he knows it, Liam's stumbling home in the dark, muffling a laugh into Zayn's shoulder.

“This one's too drunk to make it home,” Zayn announces when they've reached Harry and Louis' flat. It's the closet to the pub, only a few streets away, but the ground has been stubbornly rolling under Liam's feet ever since he stood up.

“Leave him in the gutter,” Louis decides, but there's a laugh in his voice.

Zayn has a steadying hand on his elbow, but Liam still has to grab onto a streetlamp to keep from tipping over when the pavement rolls again, the whole world spinning beneath him. “Rude.”

“Oh my god, I'm kidding. There you go, with the face again. C'mon, let's go inside.”

Liam only has the faintest memory of climbing the stairs to their second story flat, of flopping onto the couch face first. It smells faintly of animal fur, even though it's been here longer than either Louis or Harry, and they've never had any pets.

“Gross,” Liam mumbles to himself before passing out.

-

Harry's already in the kitchen the next morning when Liam shuffles in, hiding a yawn behind his palm. He almost, _almost_ turns back around, but Harry spots him before he can retreat undetected.

“Tea?” Harry asks, tipping his head towards the electric kettle on the counter. He brought it with him when he transferred from Cambridge right before junior year. It's Liam's favorite thing in the entire flat; it reminds him of summers in the English countryside with his mum's family.

“Please,” Liam says, collapsing onto one of the mismatched, rickety chairs at the table. It's quiet save for the early morning chirp of birds outside and droning hum of the refrigerator, punctuated by the occasional click of metal against porcelain as Harry stirs Liam's tea.

“Sugar?” At Liam's nod, he reaches into one of the cabinets, pulling out a canister. “How many? Two?”

“Three.”

“Gonna rot your teeth out.” Harry dumps in three spoonfuls, though, stirring it in before sliding the steaming mug over to Liam.

“Thanks,” Liam says, blowing on it before taking a sip. It's a bit too hot yet, but it feels good on his parched throat.

Harry doesn't sit like Liam expects him to, just leans back against the counter, holding his own tea cupped in both hands. He doesn't look as bad as Liam feels, but there are dark circles under his eyes that Liam hadn't noticed last night in the dim lighting of the pub.

“So,” Liam says after the silence has dragged on, nothing to fill it but the soft sounds of morning. He has to look up to meet Harry's eye, and he wonders if Harry did that on purpose. “How's, uh, how's the semester going, then?” Being best mates with Harry's best mate should make them friends by extension, but somehow it never has.

“Fine,” Harry says, taking a sip of tea.

Liam waits a beat, but Harry doesn't elaborate. “Oh. Um, that's great.”

“Yeah.” Setting his mug down on the counter, Harry says, “I'm going to take a quick shower. Help yourself to whatever, if you're hungry.” His face folds into something polite but vaguely frog-like, and then he's out the door.

“Great chat,” Liam says to the empty room. He pulls his phone from his pocket, but it's dead, and the clock on the stove says that Louis won't be up for hours yet. Liam should head home, where some leftover Chinese and his bed are both waiting for him, but his head is pounding and his stomach is rolling with nausea, so he sits instead, lingering over his tea.

The kitchen table's a mess, cluttered with mail and textbooks and an assortment of pens and things, including an uncapped highlighter. Liam grabs the highlighter and draws a line down his arm to test if it's dried out it. It is. Bored, he tosses it towards the bin, but it hits the edge and topples to the floor. If Louis didn't share this flat with Harry, Liam would leave it, but guilt pushes him to his feet.

Nausea pushes him right back into the chair. He can pick up the highlighter later. Propping an elbow on the table so he can rest his temple against his palm, Liam busies himself sorting the mail into stacks – one for Louis, one for Harry, and one for the previous tenet, Craig, who must've never given a forwarding address, if he's still getting mail here two years later.

Most of Louis' mail is still sealed in envelopes, but Harry's at least gone through the trouble of opening his. Liam shifts a stack of newspaper to make a fourth pile, and that's when he spots it, half buried under a Target ad.

The shower's still running, water gurgling through the old pipes, so Liam picks the letter up, careful not to wrinkle it. It's from the U.S. Department of State, a very official looking seal emblazoning one corner. Liam skims it, then reads it again, slower.

“What are you doing?”

With a guilty jump, Liam drops the letter back onto the table. Harry's standing in the kitchen doorway, a towel wrapped around his hips. His hair is darker wet, nearly black, and hangs in wet tendrils past his shoulders. Liam hadn't even heard the shower shut off.

“Nothing,” he lies.

Harry hitches the towel more securely around his waist, padding on bare feet towards the table. The letter is sitting right there, smack in the middle, and Harry sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth when he sees it.

“I'm sorry. I was just – I was sorting the mail, and it was just sitting out, and I – I shouldn't have read it. I'm sorry,” Liam repeats.

Harry doesn't say a word as he sinks down into the chair across from Liam, the wood groaning under his weight. “You read it,” he says, but he's not looking at Liam. His eyes are unfocused, his lashes clumped with water as he stares at nothing.

“Yeah,” Liam confirms. He swallows, and it sticks in his throat a moment. “Is it – I'm sorry. It's not my business.”

“No, it's really not.” Bare shoulders slumped, Harry rubs a hand over his face, pulling at his bottom lip. “Look, just – don't tell the others, okay?”

“They don't know?”

Harry finally looks at him, eyes sharp. “No.”

“Not even--”

“ _No_.” He lets out a ragged breath, eyes slipping shut. “No one knows, okay? I didn't want to ruin anyone's good time.”

“ _Ruin anyone's good time_ – Harry, this is serious! I thought – didn't you, Zayn, and Louis all reapply at the same time? Zayn and Louis got their student visas ages ago.”

“I know, Liam.” Resting his elbows on the table, Harry cradles his head in his hands. His cross necklace dangles from his neck, glinting dully in the early morning light, and his voice is muffled when he says, “I thought – you can request an appeal. I thought it would be fine.”

Liam's gaze drops to the letter. “It said final judgment, though. That doesn't sound like--”

“That's because I already requested the appeal. Obviously, it was denied.”

The refrigerator kicks into another gear, the sudden hum making the silence between them even louder. Voice barely more than a whisper, Liam asks, “So what are you going to do?”

Harry makes a wet sound halfway between a sob and a laugh. “I've got a month before I need to be out of the country. I don't know.”

“Can't you reapply for a new visa? Or—”

When Harry lifts his head, his face is pale and bloodless, making the bags under his eyes a bruised, angry purple in contrast. “No, it doesn't work like that.” Pushing his wet hair out of his eyes, he bursts out, “It's so – it's so fucking stupid. I had to drop one of my summer courses because it interfered with my internship. It was just an elective, I didn't think I needed to check with anyone cos I was just going to retake it this fall, but it made me out of compliance, apparently.” Water drips from his hair, running in a rivulet down his bare chest.

Liam pulls at a loose thread on his sleeve. “So there's nothing you can do? You just have to… go back to the UK? What about your senior thesis? What about – you've already paid tuition here, haven't you? They can just _do_ that?”

Sagging like the fight's been drained out of him, Harry shrugs. “I guess. No way to get another student visa, so. I'm afraid I'm fucked on that one.” His gaze has gone unfocused again, but when he catches Liam's eye, he seems to remember who he's talking to. He sits up a little straighter, a wry smile twisting his mouth. Liam hadn't realized he'd just seen behind the mask until Harry slipped it back on.

“Maybe I'll get myself a Green Card instead. I'd make a good trophy husband, right?”

Liam frowns. “Would that really work?”

“Liam. I'm joking.”

“I know, but – that would work, right? If you got a Green Card? You could stay here and finish up the school year then, couldn't you?”

A wrinkle creases the skin between Harry's eyebrows. “That's not – there are so many reasons that wouldn't work. I'd need someone willing to marry me, first of all.”

“You could marry me.” The words are out of Liam's mouth before he can second guess himself.

At first, Harry laughs. It's a surprised sort of sound, like Liam's caught him off guard with an unexpected joke. Then he says, when Liam just looks at him, “You're not serious.”

Under the table, Liam's leg starts to jiggle. He can't make it stop. “You'd just need the Green Card, right? We could go down to the courthouse, get a marriage certificate, you could apply for whatever you need to stay here – boom, done.”

Harry's staring at him as if he's grown a second head. “Are you… are you seriously suggesting fraud?”

Liam hunches in on himself, rubbing a hand up and down his thigh. “Forget it. It's a stupid idea.”

“No, no – I didn't say that.” Harry twists one of his rings around and around his finger, chewing on his bottom lip. “It's just. That'd be asking a lot of you. Sounds more like one of Louis' schemes, actually.”

Something in Liam's chest clenches. “Yeah, but he's not a U.S. citizen either, is he? None of the boys are.” Niall's the closest; he's lived here for more of his life than he's lived in Ireland, but he says it's too much work, applying for citizenship when he's got perfectly adequate Permanent Resident status. Liam suspects he just likes to call himself a real Irishman when he's on the pull, but Niall will only laugh if you try to call him on it.

“Except you,” Harry says.

“Except me,” Liam repeats.

There's something shaky in Harry's laugh. “Should've made more American friends. Don't know why I came all this way just to hang around a bunch of Brits.” He's finally stopped fiddling with his ring, but his lip is going to be shredded if he doesn't quit biting at it. “I don't know, Liam.”

Liam traces the inside seam on his jeans with his fingertip. “It's not like we'd have to tell anyone. I seriously doubt the government is going to go after some kids at uni, you know? And it – christ, it would kill Louis, all the boys, if you had to go back to the UK mid-semester.” He realizes, too late, that he didn't include himself on the list.

If Harry notices, he doesn't say. One corner of his mouth twitches, a smile trying to take root, maybe. “It wouldn't actually be the end of the world, you know.”

“But you'd be a year behind, and lose out on all the tuition you already paid here, and your – it'd impact your senior thesis, wouldn't it?”

Cocking his head to one side, Harry asks, “Why are you trying so hard to convince me?”

“I don't know!” Beneath the table, Liam's leg bounces hard enough to make his chair rattle. Harry's never known a Louis who wasn't infatuated with him, but Liam remembers a time before they met, a time before the instantaneous click, when Liam was the one who got to monopolize all of Louis' time. Harry has no idea, doesn't even realize the gravitational pull he has on Louis, the way they orbit each other like twin planets, even before Louis broke up with his last girlfriend.

Louis has never looked at Liam the way he looks at Harry. Liam' finally stills his leg. “I just – it's stupid, that they could kick you out, just like that.”

“Yeah,” Harry says, looking out the window. A muscle clenches in his jaw. Liam thinks his lip might be bleeding. “Yeah.”

-

It's drizzling when they meet on the courthouse steps, and Liam zips his jacket to his chin.

“You're sure about this?” Harry asks. His hands are shoved in his pockets, and either his terrible posture or the cold has him hunched, shoulders up around his ears.

Liam's eyes follow the imposing lines of the courthouse, stone pillars reaching towards the overcast sky. Rain drops splatter against his face, and he blinks it out of his yes. “Yeah,” he says. “We'll file for a divorce at the end of the year. No one'll ever know. It's fine, Harry.”

Harry frowns. “Isn't that stuff all public record?”

“You only have a month to get things sorted out,” Liam reminds him. It's drafty out here, the wind finding every inch of Liam's bare skin, reaching under his collar with cold fingers. He fights off a shiver. “Do you want to do this or not?”

Nodding sharply, Harry says, “Yes. Let's do this.”

Neither of them have dressed up, exactly, but Harry sheds his coat once they're inside and he's wearing a toned down version of one of his usual loud shirts, the buttons done up to nearly his collar bones. He's already got their marriage license, carefully tucked away inside a plain manilla envelope pinned between his elbow and ribs.

It feels surreal when they sit side by side on an uncomfortable wooden bench, waiting for their turn in front of the judge. Liam can't help rubbing his hands up and down his legs, trying to keep them still, to wipe the dampness from his palms.

He's startled when Harry grabs one of his hands, threading their fingers together.

“Try to look a little less like you're about to be sentenced for 25 to life, and a little more like you're excited to be here,” he advises, shifting closer so he can mumble directly into Liam's ear, his hot breath tickling. Liam tries not to flinch.

“I'm – I didn't know it would be so _official_ ,” he whispers back. He can feel Harry's eyes on him, but doesn't turn to see the expression on Harry's face.

“Don't tell me you're getting cold feet now,” Harry says. His hand is clammy in Liam's.

Liam shakes his head. “No, of course not. I'm just. We're really doing this. We're really going through with it.”

“Yeah.” Harry clears his throat. “I'm, uh. Not sure I said this yet, but – thank you. Seriously, Liam.”

Liam just squeezes his hand.

-

The ceremony is short, and no immigration officers bust through the door to arrest them, which is a positive. After the judge declares them legally wed, Harry pulls a pair of silver rings from his pocket, pressing one to the center of Liam's palm and curling his fingers closed around it. The metal is cool against his skin, but warms quickly.

“Harry?” he asks, unsure.

“You don't have to wear it, obviously,” Harry says in undertone. “It's just – a reminder.”

When Liam signs the marriage certificate, his hand doesn't shake. The two witnesses they pulled from an office down the hall sign off too, and then it's done.

They're married.

-

Harry suggests they go to lunch afterward, but Liam has class. They linger on the steps, awkward, before Liam offers Harry his hand. Harry shakes it, grip firm, then rolls his eyes and pulls Liam in for a hug.

“Thank you,” he says again, holding Liam tight. Liam feels a little breathless when Harry lets him go.

“I should… class,” he mumbles, jerking his thumb in the general direction of campus.

“Yeah, you should get going. I'm just going to – I'm gonna go get this stuff mailed off. I'll see you around?”

“Sure,” Liam agrees. He pulls the collar of his jacket up to fight off the early October chill. On his way to class, Liam takes a detour, popping into the little jewelery store that squats between a barbershop and a convenience store. He buys the cheapest metal chain he can find, and threads it through the wedding band, tucking it beneath his shirt.

A reminder, Harry said.

-

The secret Liam wears on a chain around his neck doesn't feel that big, as the weeks pass. He falls into the routine of the semester, the constant struggle of balancing school, work, and a social life. Louis gets drunk and tries to swim in the fountain, which has thankfully already been drained for the coming winter months. Niall buys a scratch off ticket and wins $500, and they blow it all on a single night out that Liam barely remembers. At least none of the pictures show up on Facebook.

Harry makes an effort to talk to Liam more, asking after his classes with apparent interest. Feeling out of his depth, Liam tries to reciprocate, but Harry's pre-med and most of it is over his head. They settle into the somewhat uncomfortable relationship of two people whose common denominator is a secret they can't talk about, an elephant no one else in the room can see.

“You and Harry are acting, like, super weird around each other,” Zayn says, flopping down on the couch next to Liam. It's the best one in the student union; comfortable and tucked away in one of the back corridors, perfect for taking a nap or pretending to study.

Liam clears his throat. “What are you talking about?”

“I dunno, just. You guys have been walking on eggshells around each other all semester.” He fishes something from his backpack, and it's not until he starts peeling it that Liam realizes it's a hard boiled egg. He chooses not to ask. Something careful in his voice that Liam hates, Zayn continues, “It doesn't have anything to do with Louis, does it?”

“First of all, me and Harry aren't being weird,” Liam tells him firmly. “Second of all, even if we were, what would Louis have to do with it?”

Zayn gives him a _look_. There's bits of eggshell on his black jeans, and he sweeps them away with the back of his hand. “Don't bullshit me, I'm one of your best mates. I know it bothers you when Harry hangs all over Louis.”

“It doesn't,” Liam argues, and Zayn snorts. Breaking off a piece of egg, he pops it in his mouth.

“It _does_ , and it's worse this semester. Is it cos Louis' single for once in his life? Because he's straight, Liam. His relationship status doesn't matter, when--”

“I know that,” Liam interrupts. And he does. He _knows_ it. “But it – you'd have to blind, not to see the way he looks at Harry sometimes.”

Zayn's eyes go all soft. Liam hates it. “Don't do this to yourself, bro.”

“It's not – it wouldn't matter to me, okay. If they were – if they did get together. I'd be happy for them, Z. I would.”

“Okay,” Zayn says, “if you say so.” He doesn't sound convinced, but at least he stops arguing. He nibbles at his egg, slouching down on the couch so he can rest his head on Liam's thigh.

“Wake me up before my history lecture, yeah?”

Liam flips the page of his book, pretending to study. “You got it.”

-

Frantic banging against the door has Liam bolting upright in bed, heart hammering against his ribcage.

“Liam! Liam, open up. I know you're home. _Liam_!” It's Harry, shouting loud enough that Liam is going to get some passive aggressive notes from his neighbors if he doesn't stop it soon.

Rolling out of bed, Liam rubs the sleep from his eyes, padding to the door. When he swings it open, Harry's got his fist raised, ready to knock again.

“Oh, thank god,” he says, pushing past Liam.

“Come on in, then,” Liam says dryly, shutting the door behind him. He turns around, jaw stretching with a yawn, to find Harry standing in the middle of the one room flat, looking around at all of Liam's worldly belongings with wide eyes.

“So. Is there a reason you're here at,” he squints at his watch. “Jesus Christ, it's 2am. What's going on?”

Blinking at Liam like the world's just slid back into focus, Harry hands him a wrinkled envelope, the seal torn open raggedly. “I was up working on a paper, and I saw it on the kitchen table when I went to find some crisps. I – I wanted to tell you in person, let you see for yourself.”

“See what?”

Dipping his head towards the envelope, Harry says, “Just – fuck, Liam. Just read it.”

Slowly, Liam pulls the letter free. It's a single page, a very official, very familiar looking seal on one corner. “This is from the U.S. Department of State. Harry, what--”

He skims the page, reading out loud, “' _Title 8, United States Code, Section 1325, states that any individual who knowingly enters into a marriage contract for the purpose of evading any provision of the immigration laws shall be imprisoned for not more than five years, or fined not more than $250,000, or both_.' Harry, what is this saying?”

Harry's eyes are so wide, there's twin rings of white all the way around the green of his irises, and absolutely no color at all in his face. “They suspect our marriage is fraudulent.”

Something seizes in Liam's chest. It's suddenly hard to breathe.“It _is_ fraudulent, oh my god, what – Harry, what do we do?”

Harry's pacing, sliding one of his rings up and down his finger. His pointer finger, not his ring finger. Liam feels sick. “We have to meet with an officer from the fraud unit for an interview. That's what the letter says.” He takes a deep breath. “We've got two choices. We can either come clean – best case I get deported, worst case we both go to jail --”

Liam closes his eyes. “I don't – those aren't good options. What's our other choice?”

Breathing raggedly, Harry says, “We lie and say our marriage is real.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments/feedback hugely appreciated. you can also come say on [tumblr](http://moondoggiestyle.tumblr.com)! everything regarding student visas, green cards, and court house weddings (thanks, wikihow) is as realistic as i could make it with only basic research, so if there are glaring errors, let's all just suspend our disbelief.


	2. in which a plan is hatched

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> minor warning for a throwaway comment/poorly executed joke about suicide.
> 
> special thanks to scottinski & onewasturning for beta'ing this chapter!! still unbritpicked, and sadly still rated T. the mature rating will come eventually, i promise.

On shaky legs, Liam stumbles to the bed, sitting down hard on the edge of the mattress. Elbows propped on his knees, he holds his head in his hands, just breathing. Harry's back to pacing, the floorboards creaking beneath his feet with each step. It's hard to think, hard to focus on any thought that isn't the mantra of _you fucked up, you fucked up, you fucked up_ \--

Liam digs the heels of his hands into his eyes, rubbing hard until stars burst across his vision. When he lifts his head again, it takes a moment for the black dots to fade, his shabby apartment coming slowly back into focus. He feels underdressed in his t-shirt and boxers compared to Harry, the long line of his legs only accentuated by his skin-tight jeans, a silk floral shirt clinging to his torso with two buttons and a prayer.

All at once, Liam is so, so tired, weary down to the bone.

“Can you stop that?”

Harry looks over, pausing mid-step. “What?”

“The pacing. You're going to piss my neighbors off.”

For a moment, he just stares at Liam, lips parted. Then he turns on his heel, stalking over to the couch that sits across from the bed, squeezed into the narrow space between the kitchen area and Liam's closet. He throws himself down heavily, the couch sliding an inch closer to the wall with a loud scrape.

“Harry,” Liam says, voice sharp.

Shuddering out a breath, Harry sits up, rubbing a hand over his mouth. “Sorry,” he says. “I just – sorry.” He laughs, and there's no humor in it at all. “I just, I keep asking myself how this could've happened, you know? And I think – fuck, Liam, it was kind of obvious, wasn't it? Getting married, going for a Green Card right after my visa was denied? Like, could we have been more _stupid_ about it?”

“You would have been back in the UK by now if we had waited,” Liam reminds him. He's still got the letter crushed in his hand, and he smooths it out, setting it carefully on the bed. He doesn't look at Harry. “If you'd – maybe if you'd told one of us earlier, we could've come up with a better plan.”

Somehow, the huff of air Harry lets out is more mocking than anything he's ever said. “Oh, I'm sorry. It's my fault, is it, that we didn't commit marriage fraud well enough?”

“Shh!” Liam hisses. The walls aren't that thick.

Harry rolls his eyes. “Come off it, Liam. They don't have your flat bugged.”

Liam flushes. “I didn't – obviously not.” He runs his hands up and down his thighs. His palms are damp, they slide easily over his skin. “But if we're really going to go through with this, don't you think having the neighbors overhear us argue is kind of counterproductive?”

Bottom lip clamped between his lip – Liam's going to go buy him some chapstick before they're through with this charade – Harry says, “Are we, then? You want to go through with it?”

“Do we really have a choice?”

Harry inclines his head in acknowledgment, a curtain of hair falling in front of his eyes. Lifting his hands, he peels a black hair-tie off one of his wrists, tugging his hair back from his face, fingers combing through to smooth a few strands back before he secures it into a messy bun. It makes his face look sharper, all harsh angles in the soft spill of light from Liam's bedside lamp.

“And anyway, I mean,” Liam reasons, dropping his gaze to address his bare knees. “We're not exactly strangers, are we? It can't be that hard to pass the interview. If it means no fines or jail time, why not go for it?”

“More lenient sentences?” Harry suggests. “A plea deal?”

Liam levels him with a look. “This is serious.”

“I know. I know that, Liam.” He lifts a hand like he's going to run his fingers through his hair, but remembers at the last minute that he's just pulled back, and drops his hand to his lap. “Look, whatever we do – we have to be on the same page. You want to go for it, let's go for it, but we're not going to get away with it if we're constantly fighting.”

“Okay.” It's a reasonable request, and he's right, so Liam doesn't point out that Harry was the one who started it. He sticks his hand out, a peace offering. “Let's go for it.”

Something like amusement tugs at the corner of Harry's mouth before he presses his lips together into a flat line. When he takes Liam's hand, his palm is dry but his grip is firm.

“Right,” Liam says, dropping his hand, Harry's smooth skin sliding across his. “How long do we have?”

Harry heaves out a sigh. The cross dangling from his necklace flashes in the light. “Five days.”

-

They agree to meet at a coffee shop the next day, too far from campus to bump into anyone they know, and Harry's already there when Liam arrives, hastily unwinding his scarf from his neck.

“Sorry,” he says, sinking into the chair across from Harry. He's picked a table in the corner, tucked away from everyone else near a big picture window. It's warm inside, the air thick with the scent of roasted coffee beans, and Liam sheds his jacket, hanging it off the back of his chair along with his scarf. His stomach growls. He hasn't eaten since breakfast, and that was half a stale bagel he found at the back of the cupboard. “I got held up after class, talking to the TA and missed the bus. Had to wait to catch the next one.”

“It's fine,” Harry says. There are two drinks on the table, sitting next to Harry's open laptop. Harry nudges one closer to Liam's elbow. “Got you a tea. Three sugars, right?”

“Right,” Liam says, blinking down at the tea in surprise. Harry's still focused on his computer screen, face intent. He's wearing a beanie today, most of his hair tucked up underneath, but a few tendrils escape, curling around his face. “Thanks,” Liam adds belatedly.

Harry smiles, a quick, polite upturn of his lips before he's back to staring at his laptop. “Okay, so,” he says, chewing on his straw. It's a nice vacation for his bottom lip. “I think we should stick to the truth as much as possible, and just go through the questions and make sure we can answer most of them.”

Liam takes a sip of his tea. It's still warm, sugary sweet on his tongue. “They really have practice questions online?”

One of Harry's shoulders lifts in a shrug. “It's not an official list or anything, but yeah. There's...” he trails off, squinting at the screen. “Well, there's a lot, to be honest.” His mouth twists into a frown, eyes scanning rapidly.

Eyeing the display of baked goods near the register, Liam asks, “Like, more than we can memorize in four days, a lot?”

In answer, Harry shuts his laptop, folding his hands together on top of it. Watery afternoon light glints off the silver rings circling his fingers, the sky outside an overcast gray. “Okay, Plan B. Let's come up with a backstory that explains our lack of knowledge about each other.”

Snorting, Liam takes another sip of tea. “You have something in mind a government official would buy?”

Harry's long fingers drum against the table. “Okay, how about – we could say that we've had mutual friends for years, but never really spent much time together, just the two of us, but then after a night out together, we realized we were actually madly in love and got hitched immediately.”

Liam considers it. “Doesn't seem very plausible.”

Sitting back in his seat, Harry crosses his arms over his chest. “Look, if you want to spend five years in jail, just tell me now, and we won't waste our time on this.”

“Sorry! Sorry.” Liam scrubs a hand over the back of his neck. His stomach growls again, louder than before. “Just, give me a minute to think, okay?”

He doesn't mean a minute alone, but Harry must take it that way, because he abruptly stands up, drifting towards the counter. Hands wrapped around his tea, warming his fingers, Liam watches as Harry chats with the barista, leaning in close. He can't hear what Harry's saying from here, his voice too low to pick out the words, but he doesn't miss the way the barista ducks her head with a small smile, tucking her hair behind one ear.

Liam turns his attention towards the window, watching the traffic go by.

He jumps a little in surprise when Harry returns, dropping something on the table with a soft thump. When he looks down, there's a chocolate muffin sitting in front of him. He can smell it, even through the plastic wrapping. His mouth waters.

“Go on, then,” Harry says, slouching in his seat but still managing to take up twice as much space as Liam with the wide sprawl of his limbs. “You like chocolate, right?”

“Yeah. I – thanks.” Harry doesn't smile at him or anything, just watches Liam with indifference as he unwraps the muffin, breaking off a piece with his fingers and popping it in his mouth. It's still warm and he lets it sit on his tongue, savoring the taste as the chocolate starts to melt. He makes a tally, in his head, as he swallows it. He owes Harry a tea and a muffin now.

“So what do you think?” Harry asks, and at first Liam thinks he means the muffin. “Got any brilliant ideas?”

“Oh. Um.” Liam busies himself with unwrinkling the plastic wrapping, trying to smooth it out against the surface of the table. Thinking out loud, he says, “Okay, it was obviously a rash decision we made, getting married, no way around that one. So what if we tell the government people that nobody knows yet, because we haven't told our families or anything? Cos, like, my mum would be so disappointed, right, that I didn't have a big, traditional wedding. Would that work?”

Reaching for his tea, Harry brings it to his lips, taking a sip as he mulls it over. “We'd still need the reason we eloped in the first place. Like you said, it's not exactly plausible we fell madly in love with each other.”

It stings, the way Harry says it; like if Liam were anyone else, falling madly in love would be possible. Probable, even. Liam breaks off another piece of muffin, chewing slowly. “Right.”

“But I can't think of anything better.” Harry sighs, shoulders slumping. A moment later he perks up, head cocked to the side. “Unless...”

Liam swallows, still picking at his muffin. He's got some chocolate under his thumbnail and he frowns at it. “What?”

A slow smile spreads across Harry's face, his eyes lighting up. “We're just two crazy kids who rushed into marriage, right? Maybe we don't need to sell that we're madly in love. Just that we _think_ we are.”

“I don't follow.”

Harry sounds excited now, sitting up straight in his seat. “We just have to act like we're really infatuated with each other. That our passion got carried away, or whatever. You know, Romeo and Juliet style.”

That one throws Liam. “You think we should kill ourselves?”

Harry swats his arm and Liam nearly drops his muffin bit. “Don't be obtuse. I meant, they only knew each for, like, three days and things got seriously out of control. We can say this thing between us is new, but we couldn't help rushing into things, cos we're so sure it'll last forever.” His eyebrows flit up, like he can convince Liam to go for this idea with the enthusiasm of his expression alone.

“Okay.” There's more chocolate staining the pads of Liam's fingers and he sucks his thumb into his mouth to get it off. “How do we sell that?”

“Um,” Harry says blinking at Liam, gaze caught on Liam's fingers. He shakes his head a little, that easy smile stretching his face again. “I mean, what do crazy kids in love do? Snog a bit, maybe some heavy petting?”

Liam's jaw actually drops open, mouth gaping. “Are you serious right now? You want us to – to fool around? To prep for an interview where we're going to lie to the U.S. government about our marriage, even though we barely know each other?”

Harry has the audacity to look offended. “I wouldn't say _barely_.” He pauses, thinking. “I know you've got a sister.”

“I have two sisters.”

“Well, fuck,” Harry says, and reaches across the table to steal a chunk of Liam's muffin, chewing noisily.

-

The clock is ticking down towards the day of their interview, but Liam didn't save Harry's ass just to flunk out of college senior year. He's got class, and papers, and more group projects than he knows what to do about.

He doesn't have time to memorize Harry's family tree, or his favorite breakfast food, or the songs he listens to when he's feeling down. The worry still eats at him, though, every spare moment he has, and most of the ones he hasn't got to spare. Sleep doesn't come easy, especially when his phone buzzes loudly against his nightstand late one night, a few days before the interview. It doesn't quite jar him awake – he'd have to actually be able to fall asleep to manage that – but it does startle him, his pulse jumpstarting. He squints at the screen, eyes not used to the glare, and answers out of pure surprise.

“Harry?”

“I was thinking,” Harry says. He sounds a little out of breath, and there's static in the background. Wind, maybe. “About how we can convince them.”

Liam doesn't have to ask who them is. “Got a plan cooked up, then?”

“Kind of,” Harry answers cryptically. “Listen, since you're up--” a stretch, but Liam doesn't correct him “--can I stop by? I think we should talk about it in person.”

“It's late, Harry,” Liam reminds him. He has an early class, but he only managed to get through half the reading assignment, the words swimming in and out of focus.

“Time's not exactly on our side, here,” Harry points out. There's the muted honk of a car horn and Liam wonders what Harry's doing out so late, wandering the streets.

He sighs, kicking the covers off his legs. Either way, he won't be sleeping tonight. “Yeah, come over.”

-

The coffee maker's just finished, beeping obnoxiously at Liam, when there's a soft knock on the door. Scratching at his belly and hiding a yawn with the back of his wrist, Liam swings it open.

Harry's curls are loose tonight, hanging past his shoulders, and his cheeks are pink with cold.

“Is that coffee?” he asks, slipping inside past Liam, shedding his coat and hanging it on one of the hooks near the door. “Thought you were a tea man.”

“I'm flexible,” Liam says. Then remembers his manners, and adds, “You want a cup?”

Harry shakes his head, and Liam shrugs, pouring one for himself. He adds enough creamer to turn it a milky, caramel brown, stirring it in until the color's even, and Harry looks amused. “You really do have quite the sweet tooth, don't you?”

Liam props himself against the counter, hands wrapped around his mug. The steam warms his face, and he looks at Harry over the rim. “So. You wanted to talk?”

Dropping his gaze to his hands, Harry fiddles with one of his rings. Liam wonders, for a moment, where Harry keeps his wedding band. Hopes the fabric of his shirt is too thick for Harry to make out the outline of Liam's, pressed close to his skin, heavy as an albatross on the chain around his neck.

“I think,” Harry says, the syrup of his voice even slower than normal, “that we need a trial run before the interview.”

“You want someone to quiz us, or something?”

Harry finally glances up, eyes intense as he focuses in on Liam. “No, I – remember how I said we should play it off like we're lovesick teenagers, too dumb to know any better? I still think it's our best bet, but – it's not going to work, if we can't back it up.”

Alarm buzzers go off inside of Liam's head. “Harry. Whatever it is you're thinking right now – we're not going to, like, start making out on top of the desk or something.”

Harry shakes his head. “No, I wasn't – okay, actually I don't hate that idea, but I was more--” he keeps uncharacteristically stumbling over his words, talking faster now than Liam's ever heard him. “I think we need to tell the boys that we're together.”

Liam stands up straight. “What? No. Absolutely not.”

“I know you wanted to keep it secret, but Liam, _think_ for once. We don't know for sure what kind of fact checking they're going to do as part of the interview process. I mean, I _live_ with Louis. Don't you think there's a chance they might want to call him up to verify that I'm married to somebody else? How is it going to go over if he has no idea?”

“They wouldn't,” Liam protests, but he's suddenly unsure. “Would they?”

Harry raises an eyebrow. “You willing to risk it?”

Steam still curls from Liam's cup of coffee, too hot yet to drink, but he's wide awake, even without the kick of caffeine. “That's,” he says. “Harry, that's never going to work. They'll never believe that we actually eloped.”

“I know, I realized that too. But listen, okay, we're sticking with the story that we haven't told our families, right? So why would we have told our friends?” He sounds excited, and Liam can't understand why. This is a nightmare. “We don't need to get into the marriage stuff. We just need to convince them that we're dating, just until the investigation is over.”

Liam takes a sip of coffee to buy himself some time. It's still too hot and burns his tongue, scalding his throat the whole way down. “I don't – that sounds like a lot. Couldn't we just tell them the truth? Louis, at the very least? I trust him with my life. He'd keep it secret.”

But Harry shakes his head. “And if this whole thing goes to shit, he'd be an accessory. No, we made this mess. I'm not dragging anybody else into it.”

He's right. Liam hates it. “I still don't like it,” he says. “Lying to our friends like that.”

“You got a better idea, I'm all ears. This is just – it's a short term thing, Liam. A fib, really. We are technically married, so telling them we're together is a variation on the truth, if you think about it.”

Liam stares at him for a moment. “You're wasting your time doing pre-med. You should be a politician.”

Harry's laugh is loud and bright. Liam thinks this might be the first time he's ever been the cause of it. “So you're on board, then?” he asks. “Cos we're gonna have to be, y'know. Act like we can't keep our hands off each other, at least in front of the others.”

The chain around his neck feels more like a noose. “I'm not a big fan of PDA,” Liam tries, swallowing another mouthful of too hot coffee.

“We're facing jail time, Liam.” Harry takes a step forward, crowding closer. His voice drops a pitch when he says, “Is kissing me really that horrible in comparison?”

No, Liam thinks, and adds it to the pile of sins he hopes Louis can forgive him for, after this is all over. “I think maybe I need something stronger first,” he jokes, but it doesn't actually come out sounding like a joke, the way his voice wavers.

The way the smile slides off Harry's face feels like it actually turns the room a few degrees colder. “Are you serious right now? You do realize how insulting that sounds, don't you?”

“It's not like that,” Liam says quickly. “It's just--”

“What?” Harry's voice is venom.

Liam deflates, leaning heavily against the counter. “This is just – it's more than I signed up for.”

Harry stares him down, nostrils flared. “I didn't ask you to do this, okay. It was you who offered, so don't forget that.” He doesn't mean the kissing. It stings, the way he tosses the blame squarely into Liam's lap, but it stings even more that he's right. It'd be a laugh, if it were any of the other boys. It'd be _believable_ , that Harry would fall into a reckless marriage with one of them, too stupidly in love to know any better.

It's the fact that he's stuck with Liam that threatens to blow the whole thing apart.

Liam closes his eyes. “I know. I know.” When he opens them, Harry's still there.

This isn't going away.

“Okay,” Liam says, quick like ripping off a plaster. “Let's just – let's do this. I'm ready.”

Unbelievably, Harry lets out another bark of laughter, but there's something incredulous, almost cruel in it. “You're _ready_? Liam, mate, have you ever kissed someone before? This isn't isn't going to kill you. It's not something you need to _brace_ for.”

Heat flames Liam's cheeks. “Yes, I've kissed someone before. It just feels a little more natural when it's not _practice_ to trick our fucking friends into – into buying into some shit charade!” He's breathing hard, all of the sudden, his chest heaving. He sets his mug down on the counter with a loud clatter and coffee sloshes over the rim, dripping down the side.

“This really bothers you,” Harry says. “Is it – are you actually upset about the kissing, or is it the fact that we can't keep this a secret anymore? Would it really be that terrible if our friends thought we were together?”

And Liam can't tell him the truth. It wouldn't be terrible for him, but for Louis – it feels like Liam's betrayed him, everything spinning out of control.

“I don't,” he says. Stops, licks his lips. “I don't like lying.”

“That makes two of us.” Harry hesitates. “It's not too late, you know. To come clean.”

Liam gapes at him. “But you'll be deported!”

Clearly frustrated, Harry jerks a hand back through his hair, shoving it off his forehead. “Obviously this isn't an ideal situation, Liam. Either we go all in, or we confess. For better or worse, right?”

Liam shudders. “Don't. Don't – mock it like that.”

“I'm sorry.” He sounds like he means it. Softer, he says, “Listen. We don't have time for you to keep going back and forth, for us to keep arguing like this. We can set up some ground rules, if you want, figure out what's crossing the line. Come up with a safe word or something. We're going to need to act like an actual couple for this to work, though.”

Liam crosses his arms over his chest, hands tucked under his armpits. “It's not like the U.S. government is going to make us make out to prove we're really married,” he points out, but he's careful to match his tone to Harry's, to keep things light.

“Probably not,” Harry agrees. “If it's really too much for you, we don't have to. I just think a good snog will help us be more comfortable around each other. Maybe get you to relax a little, but I'm not gonna push it, if it's an issue.”

Liam doesn't know how to explain that the issue isn't Harry without also explaining what the issue actually is. He can't tell Harry he's pretty sure that finding out he's with Liam will crush Louis' heart, without also telling him he's pretty sure Louis' heart is in Harry's hands.

Liam takes a deep breath. Louis would probably also be fairly upset if both his best mates had to serve hard time, he reminds himself. After this is over, Liam can come clean. Louis is a forgiving person, once he's done holding a grudge.

“Okay,” he says.

Harry blinks in surprise. “Okay? Really, just like that?”

“Believe it or not, I'm trying my best here.” It comes out harsher than he meant, and he closes his eyes, breathing through his nose. The kitchen – his whole flat – it's all too small for this; for Harry's larger than life presence, this stupid scheme taking up more space than Liam wants to allot; the scent of Harry's cologne mingling with coffee, making his head spin.

The soft brush of fingers over his cheek startles him, and Liam's eyes fly open. Harry's closed the space between them without Liam realizing, their chests nearly brushing.

“You know what our problem is?” Harry murmurs, his fingers settling gently on Liam's jaw.

Swallowing thickly, Liam asks, “What?”

Up close, Liam can see the way Harry's smile crinkles the skin around his eyes. He'll have deep crow's feet by the time he's forty, but Liam thinks he'll wear them well.

“We talk too much,” Harry says. “Can't fight if we don't say anything, can we?”

They could probably manage to, but pointing this out only serves Harry's point. Liam reaches up, touching a fingertip to Harry's chapped lower lip.

He's not sure who leans in first, but he knows he's the one who ducks his head at the last moment, their foreheads bumping instead of their mouths. “I'm sorry,” he says. “I can't do it. You're--” _Louis_ '. He shakes his head, temple to temple with Harry. “I'm sorry,” he repeats lamely.

“It's fine, Liam,” Harry says, surprising him. He takes a step back, hand falling away from Liam's face. “That's your line. I won't cross it.”

Liam breathes out, slow.

Harry says, “Maybe a massage instead?”

Liam breathes in, sharp.

“I can see how tense you are from here, Liam. Look, I know we're in this together now, but it was my mess first, and you're the one helping me. Let me do something nice for you, okay?”

Liam eyes him warily. “You bought me tea. And a muffin.”

“And now I'm going to rub your back. _Relax_. I won't try to kiss you or anything like that, I promise. We just need to get used to touching each other to make it believable.”

He holds out his hand in offering. After a moment's hesitation, Liam takes it. He lets himself be reluctantly pulled along, but he blanches a bit when Harry guides him towards the bed.

“Relax,” Harry reminds him. “This will be easier if you lie down.”

Giving Harry one last long look over his shoulder, Liam climbs onto the bed, flopping down on his belly. He doesn't feel very relaxed at all, especially when the mattress dips behind him. Liam twists his neck around, trying to see, and Harry gently but firmly pushes him down, palm flat between Liam's shoulder blades. His heavy weight settles across the back of Liam's thighs, knees on either side of Liam's hips, pinning him down.

Cheek pressed to the cool sheets, Liam tries to catch his eye. “Harry--” he starts to say, but Harry shushes him. His hands feel huge when he presses down gently, his spread fingers fanning the width of Liam's entire back. Liam probably imagines he can feel Harry's rings biting through the thin material of his t-shirt.

Harry applies steady pressure, digging his fingertips into Liam's tense muscles. It hurts, at first, and Liam makes an involuntary sound, an embarrassing little whimper escaping his throat. Harry's touch gentles even more, and he traces long, sweeping motions up and down Liam's back before pressing in hard again, starting with the back of Liam's neck and working his way down.

Bit by bit, Liam starts to relax, Harry's fingers loosening all the knots he hadn't realized had been wound so tightly, leaving him a boneless puddle.

He's almost asleep when Harry finally shifts, his warm weight leaving Liam's legs. Liam blinks his eyes open in time to see Harry settle next to him on the bed, face close enough that Liam could count the freckles on his cheeks, if he had any.

“Hi,” Harry says.

“Hi,” Liam says back, unable to help the smile that spreads across his face. Harry turns his head, hiding his expression against the sheets. He lies there next to Liam for a long time, until Liam's breathing evens out, and he falls asleep.

-

In the end, they decide to go with the same strategy when they tell the boys: stick to the truth as closely as possible. There's not a lot of truth left to tell, though, so they opt for the next best thing: plausible deniability. “Our story is, there is no story. They can't catch us in a lie if we don't give them any ammunition.”

“Not sure that's going to work, if I'm being honest.”

“Don't be honest,” Harry tells him with a wink. “Be mysterious and intriguing.”

Liam is not, by nature, a mysterious or intriguing person, but he can pretend, just for a little while. It's even easier when Harry grabs hold of his hand, smiling a small, private smile just for Liam before they walk into the pub.

It's Niall's favorite place, a dingy hole-in-the-wall that boasts two dollar beer on Tuesdays. It's Wednesday, so the beer's full price, but on the upside they've practically got the place to themselves, the evening crowd not yet starting to trickle in. The rest of the boys are already there, though, a few empties scattered around the table, and the rambunctious chatter dies down to a loaded silence when they take in the sight one by one.

It's Louis who picks his chin off the floor first. “What's this, then?” he asks, and his eyes are glittering with something Liam can't decipher.

Harry looks down at their clasped hands, as if he's as surprised as they are at the sight. His voice is neutral when he says, “Just what it looks like.”

Zayn's watching them with shrewd eyes over the rim of his beer, but Niall bounces out of his seat, slapping Harry, then Liam, both on the back.

“I knew it!” he crows. “I fucking called it!”

“Called what?” Liam asks. He can feel the way his face folds in confusion, but he can't do anything to help it. His palm is damp against Harry's.

“You two.” Hands on his hips, Niall shakes his head at them, marveling. “I knew you'd be shagging before the year was up, I _knew_ it. Zayn, did I not call it?”

Zayn hasn't actually taken a sip of his beer since they walked in, but he's still holding it in front of his face, like he forgot halfway through what he was meant to be doing. “No, you didn't. You never actually said that, Niall.”

He waves a hand, unconcerned. “Well, I totally thought it. I knew for sure they were gonna fuck or fight, and I was totally right.”

There's a lot to process right now, including the completely unreadable look in Louis' eyes. “I wouldn't – why would I fight Harry?”

Niall claps him on the shoulder again, fingers digging in. “Sometimes chemistry is just like that, mate. Inspires strong reactions in people, you know?” Grinning, he says, “Shit, we need to celebrate. Next round's on me!” He bounces off to the bar to order, leaving Liam and Harry with a skeptical Zayn and a… well, for the first time since freshman year, Liam can't read Louis at all.

Squeezing Liam's hand, Harry takes a seat, pulling Liam into the chair next to him. “All right, Lou?” he asks, a little pointedly. Liam expects him to drop his hand, but he keeps their fingers laced together, even beneath the table.

“Fine,” Louis says. He doesn't last ten seconds before he adds, “I'm just a little surprised, is all. Bit unexpected, the two of you.”

“It's not--” Liam starts, but Harry talks right over him.

“For us, too. It's like Niall said, innit? Can't help chemistry.”

Louis opens his mouth like he's got something else to add, but closes it a second later, teeth clicking. “Right. Chemistry. Excuse me, lads, would you? There's a cigarette calling my name.” He pushes his chair back, legs scraping against the floor.

Liam half rises in his chair, ready to go after him, but Harry stills him with a hand on his shoulder. “I'll talk to him,” he says, but his eyes aren't on Liam anymore.

Sitting back down, Liam watches him go.

-

Niall comes back to the table a few minutes later, three beers in hand, saying, “Have to go back for the rest, don't have fucking monster hands like Styles. What is--”

He's cut off when Zayn pulls him in to whisper something in his ear, his eyes going wide, then soft. “Ah, shit,” he says, and slides all three sweating glasses towards Liam.

“If they're not back in ten minutes, you can have their drinks, all right?” Shaking his head, Niall turns back towards the bar, mumbling audibly, “Fucking idiots, the both of them.”

Guilt churns in Liam's gut, and he grabs the closest beer, fingers slipping against the condensation. He doesn't know how things have managed to spiral so far outside of his control that there's no clear way to pull it back in, to fix it. Doesn't know how he's managed to fuck this up so royally, when all he wanted to do was help.

He takes a long pull, and when he lowers his glass, Zayn's still watching him across the table.

“What?” Liam asks, sounding as miserable as he feels.

For a long moment, Zayn's silent, his soft eyes dark as he takes his time, choosing his words with care. “I don't get it,” he finally says. “Two weeks ago, you were talking about how you were convinced Louis was in love with Harry, and now you show up holding hands with him? Is this… is this the real reason you two have been so weird all semester? Cos you were hiding this?”

And there is it, served up for Liam on a silver fucking platter. Any easy out; a variation of the truth so close that it's hardly a lie at all.

Liam should take it. But he doesn't want to.

“It's – it's more complicated than that, all right?”

“How so?”

And Liam should've taken the out when he had the chance. “I can't – it's too hard to explain.” If he hadn't spent years at college in Zayn's pocket, he'd never be able to pick up on the way his eyes shutter, going hard beneath the sudden furrow in his brow. Almost desperate, he adds, “Louis' my best mate, okay, the last thing I want to do is hurt him, you have to believe me when I say that.”

There's something slightly less guarded in Zayn's face when he says, “Of course, Liam.”

“Harry's just – it turns out he's really important to me, too.”

There. It's mysterious. It's intriguing. It's the truth, though not the version of it he's implying. Liam feels like the worst kind of person.

“I believe you,” Zayn says.

Liam wants to cry. He takes another gulp of beer instead, and hopes he drowns in it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, comments/feedback hugely appreciated (especially if you've already left kudos and want to show more love!!!). you can also come say on [tumblr](http://www.moondoggiestyle.tumblr.com)!
> 
> i'm hoping to update every week or so, but there's no real schedule in place. i'll try my best to keep things consistent!


	3. in which things snowball

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> again, special thanks to scottinski & onewasturning for the lightning quick beta work! i could not keep this rapid pace up without either of you <33
> 
> no additional warnings for this chapter, other than another heap of angst.

Niall comes back with the two remaining drinks in hand, but the door to the smoker's deck stays stubbornly closed. Liam tries not to look as pathetic as he feels, watching for it to swing back open, staring instead into the amber depths of his beer.

“So,” Niall asks in a loud, cheerful voice as he settles back down at the table, “who saw the Derby match last night?”

As far as subject changes go, it's incredibly obvious, but Liam accepts it gratefully. He's English enough on his mum's side to follow the sport, though he'd rather play than watch. Zayn's got no patience for it at all, but he humors Niall, letting him draw him into the discussion. Louis could help Niall beat this subject into the ground, if he weren't still busy crying in Harry's arms, or whatever it is they're doing out on the smoker's deck.

Niall sticking his elbow between Liam's ribs jolts him back to the conversation, and although Niall's smile hasn't dimmed a single watt, his eyes look decidedly worried.

“I'm fine,” Liam says before Niall can ask the question. “I'm just – long day.”

“Sure, Payno,” he says easily. “Hey, another minute, and those drinks are yours!”

“Niall,” Zayn says, pointed, and Niall's eyes widen.

“Right. Sore subject. Hey, listen,” he says, leaning towards Liam like he's got a secret to whisper, but not bothering to pitch his voice any lower as he adds, “fuck 'em both anyway, the co-dependent dickheads.”

“Who are you calling a co-dependent dickhead?” Harry asks out of nowhere, and Liam nearly jumps when his fingertips come to rest on Liam's shoulder, his grip light. He hadn't even noticed the door opening, let alone Harry walking back to the table.

Squawking indignantly from the other side of the table, Niall slaps Zayn's arm. “You saw him standing there, didn't you, and you just let me make an arse of myself!”

Zayn shrugs. “You made Liam upset.”

“No, that co-dependent dickhead made Liam upset,” Niall retorts, apparently not caring that Harry's still standing there. Or maybe he means Louis, who's yet to make a reappearance.

“I'm not upset,” Liam interjects, and it's a lie, but just a little one in the grand scheme of things. Harry's fingertips slide along Liam's shoulders until his hand is cupping the back of Liam's neck, rubbing gently. It's like muscle memory, the way he wants to slip into a boneless state, remembering the feeling of Harry's hands the other night.

Liam sits up straight, squaring his shoulders, but Harry leaves his hand resting there, thumb tucked beneath Liam's collar, touching his skin.

“Speaking of, where is Louis, then? Still sulking outside?”

“Niall,” Zayn says, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “Have you heard of tact?”

Taking a swig of beer, Niall wipes his mouth with the back of his wrist. “Just callin' it like I see it, bro.”

Harry leans in, a stray curl tickling Liam's cheek. “Can I talk to you for a sec?” he murmurs, too quietly for Zayn or Niall to hear. Something like dread coils in Liam's gut.

“What is it?”

Reaching for Liam's wrist, Harry tugs him away from the table, Niall and Zayn still bickering loudly. He leads Liam to the bar, where he proceeds to order a water while Liam waits less than patiently next to him.

“What, Harry?” he asks again, resting his elbow on the counter. Louis still hasn't come back in, and Liam has the sinking feeling he isn't going to.

Thanking the bartender for his water, Harry takes a small sip before finally turning towards Liam. “Louis told me to tell you that he's not mad,” he says.

Liam's elbow nearly slips off the edge of the counter. “Then where is he?”

Harry takes another sip of water before setting it back on the bar, fingers still wrapped around the glass. “I dunno, think maybe he went home. He just – I swear, Liam, he isn't pissed. I think he just needs some time.”

This time, Liam props both his elbows onto the bar, and cradles his head in his hands.

“Liam, it's _fine_ , okay?” Harry's hand is on his back again, his touch warm even through the thick material of Liam's shirt, his knuckles tracing up and down the knobs of Liam's spine. “We just, like, caught him off guard with this. You know how he gets. Doesn't like being left out, feeling like we've pulled the rug from underneath him.”

Liam doesn't lift his head. “Is that it? He's just upset about being left out?”

For a long second, Harry's knuckles still before continuing their path down Liam's back. “I think this is a conversation you need to have with Louis.”

“Harry--”

He leans over, mouth nearly brushing Liam's temple. From the table where Niall and Zayn are sitting, it probably looks like he's pressed a kiss there. “It's fine, Liam,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “I promise. He'll come around. Give him some time.”

Liam takes a deep breath. The interview is in a few days, and then this whole mess will all be behind them.

Harry's right. It'll be fine.

-

(All the same, Liam can't help calling Louis on his walk home later that night, the crisp fall air cold against his cheeks, harsh in his throat.

It rings four, then five times before Louis' voicemail kicks in. Liam squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. After the beep, he says, “I know you never listen to your voicemail, but please, Louis, if you – just, call me back, okay? Please call me back.”

Louis won't, he already knows.

He slips his phone back into his pocket with frozen fingers, wrapping his scarf tighter around his neck as he dodges traffic, walking as quickly as he can towards home.)

-

The day before the interview, Liam sequesters himself away in the student union, trying to finish a paper before he has to meet up with his classmates later to divvy up work for their group project. Harry finds him – Liam doesn't know how, maybe Zayn tipped him off – and flops onto the couch next to him.

“Hiii,” he says, leaning into Liam's side. Hooking his chin over Liam's shoulder, he asks, “What are you working on?”

Liam has to fight the urge to shrug him off. “A paper.”

“Obviously.” Harry's voice is right in his ear. It tickles when he talks. “Which class, though? What's it on?”

This time, Liam does shrug Harry off under the pretense of shifting his weight, re-balancing his laptop across his knees. He doesn't look away from the screen, though he couldn't say what was written there, if someone asked him. The letters have been blurry and out of focus for awhile now.

“I'm trying to work here, Harry,” he says evenly.

There's a pause, and then Harry says, voice as carefully even, “We have the interview tomorrow.”

Liam types some more, fingers flying across the keys. He's not even sure he's writing actual words, let alone a cohesive sentence. “I know.”

Harry's chin isn't hooked over his shoulder anymore, but he's still close enough to Liam's side that Liam can feel the line of heat down his body, his thigh brushing Liam's when Harry crosses one leg over the other. “What's with you? I'm just, like, trying to be a supportive boyfriend, or whatever.”

Liam closes his eyes. “Don't. No one's around, okay, we don't need to keep up the act when we're alone.”

His side is cold, suddenly, when Harry leans away. “Right,” he says, pushing to his feet. “We're only friends when the others are around. Got it.”

“That's not what I meant,” Liam says, finally looking up. Harry's gaze is burning in its intensity, but Liam doesn't drop his eyes. “And you know it.”

“I never really know, when it comes to you, Liam.”

He walks off before Liam can ask him what the hell that's supposed to mean, disappearing around the corner without a single backwards glance. Liam tries to refocus on his paper, but the words won't come. He closes his laptop and just breathes for awhile.

-

Liam doesn't sleep at all the night before the interview, tossing and turning, legs tangled in his blankets, and his eyelids feel like sandpaper by the time he rolls out of bed. He turns the shower as hot as he can stand, but the water pounding against his back isn't nearly as effective as Harry's long fingers in releasing the tension from his sore muscles. He's strung tight as he gets dressed, pulling on his nicest pair of jeans and a blue button-down shirt he wore to his cousin's wedding last summer.

The soft knock against the door surprises him – it's not yet 8am – and he's more surprised when he swings it open to see Harry standing there, two Starbucks cups in hand.

“Hi,” he says, after Liam's just stared at him for a moment. “Can I come in?”

Liam steps back wordlessly, letting Harry slip by him. He shuts the door, and when he turns around to face Harry, he offers Liam one of the cups.

“It's coffee,” he says. “With like, a gallon of creamer. You, uh. You look like you slept about as well as I did last night.”

Dazed, Liam takes the coffee from Harry, gulping a few mouthfuls. It's still hot, and he probably imagines the instantaneous burst of caffeine that hits his blood steam.

“You really have to stop buying me things,” he says quietly.

“What's mine is yours, right?”

“Harry.”

“Sorry.” Jerking a hand back through his hair, Harry sighs. “I feel like I apologize to you more than I actually talk to you.”

“Yeah, well.” Liam looks down at the coffee in his hands. “I'm the one who should probably be apologizing to you. This isn't easy for either of us, I don't think, but I keep making it harder.” He forces himself to look up and catch Harry's eye. “I'm sorry.”

The smile that tugs at the corner of Harry's mouth is small, but genuine. “Look at us, Liam, working through our disagreements like a real couple. There's hope yet we'll make it through this.”

“Shut up,” Liam says, but he's smiling too.

Harry waits for him to finish getting ready, sitting slumped at Liam's little kitchen table, sipping slowly at his coffee. It seems rude to shut the door when all Liam's doing is brushing his teeth, and he wouldn't think twice if it were Louis – hasn't, in fact. But he can't stop thinking about how Harry's in the other room, how if they were a real couple, Harry's toothbrush would sit in the cup next to his.

He wonders what color it is. If that's the question that will doom their interview.

Spitting out a mouthful of foam, Liam rinses away the last of the toothpaste, rubbing his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Hey, Harry,” he says, finally stepping out of the bathroom. “What color is your toothbrush?”

Harry blinks up at him. “Red.”

“Huh.” After a moment, Liam adds, “Mine's blue. In case it comes up, or whatever.”

Stretching with the feline grace of a cat, Harry pushes to his feet. He hasn't bothered to shrug off his coat, though it's at least unbuttoned. The shirt he has on underneath is black and covers most of his chest, not a single one of his weird tattoos on display. Harry's taking this seriously.

Liam tries not to let the thought make him nervous.

As Liam pulls on his own coat, Harry hovers by the door, just watching him. “Remember the game plan?”

Fumbling with the zipper, Liam nods. “Stick as close to the truth as possible. If we don't know something, we say we don't know so they can't catch us in a lie. We rushed into things but we're crazy about each other, so there are a lot of knowledge gaps, but we're committed to this marriage.”

Harry beams in approval. “Let's go get this over with.”

-

The fraud office is in an imposing building that requires a subway ride and three blocks on foot to reach. Liam's stomach is in knots as they wait for the lift to take them up to the 7th floor as the letter instructed, and he wishes he hadn't finished his coffee on the way over, just to give him something to do with his hands.

Without looking over, Harry reaches for his hand, twining their fingers together. If he finds Liam's palm unbearably clammy, he doesn't mention it.

They ride the lift in silence, Liam's gaze alternating between the numbers ticking off each floor and his feet. When the lift slows to a halt and the doors slide open on their floor, Harry tugs him forward gently, and it's only then Liam remembers how to pick up his feet, following Harry down the corridor.

Outside the door with an official looking plaque that reads _U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services_ , Harry pauses, glancing over at Liam. “You okay?” he asks. “You're still sure about this?”

“I'm sure,” Liam says. He takes a deep breath. “I'm sure,” he repeats.

Harry studies him for a long moment, searching Liam's face. He must find whatever it is that he's looking before, because he grabs for the door knob with his free hand, pulling it open.

Together, they check in with a receptionist who sits behind a plate of glass, because Harry hasn't dropped Liam's hand and Liam's certainly not going to be the first one to pull away. Harry does the talking and Liam barely registers what he's saying, just the deep, slow cadence of his voice in counterpoint with the receptionist's bored drone. Harry has to tug his hand again to lead him away from the window, and they settle in a pair of hard-backed chairs, clasped hands resting on the armrest between them. Liam doesn't say anything, because there's nothing to say, but he relaxes incrementally when Harry's thumb starts tracing small circles over his knuckles.

The low table squatting in front of them boasts an impressive collection of magazines Liam's never heard of, every issue dated at least five years ago. He reads off each title silently, working his way through the stack. An analog clock hangs on the wall above the receptionist's window, maybe to remind them of how little the government cares about wasting their time. The second hand ticks obnoxiously. Liam grinds his teeth.

He registers Harry shifting closer distantly; the creak of his chair, the sudden warm breath ghosting over his ear.

“It's not too late to start making out,” he whispers. “Bet the fines for public indecency aren't nearly as bad as marriage fraud.”

Liam has to turn his helpless laugh into a coughing sort of snort noise, which is hardly subtle. The receptionist doesn't look up from her computer screen.

“You're awful,” Liam whispers back.

Harry sits back in his seat, a pleased smile on his face.

It takes twenty minutes before someone comes to collect them for the interview, a thin, middle-aged man with a receding hairline who looks over the rim of his glasses at them. Liam can _feel_ him judging them from across the room. He sits up a little straighter in his seat.

“Mr. Styles?” he calls in a flat New York accent.

Harry rises to his feet and Liam follows on shaky legs, but the man shakes his head.

“Just Mr. Styles, please.”

Harry exchanges a look with Liam before clearing his throat. “I'm sorry, sir, but I thought both of us were going to be interviewed? The letter made it sound like--”

Sounding bored, the man says, “Yes, you'll both be interviewed. They'll be conducted separately. If you'll come with me now, Mr. Styles…?”

Liam tightens his grip on Harry's hand before he can pull his fingers free. “Harry,” he says in undertone. He can hear the panic in his voice. “Harry, I didn't know they'd separate us.”

Gently pulling his fingers free, Harry takes Liam's face in both hands, looking at him intensely. “You're going to be fine, okay? I'll be right down the hall from you. _Relax_.” He presses a lingering kiss to Liam's cheek, nearly brushing the corner of his mouth, and for a second, Liam forgets it's all an act.

Then Harry's dropping his hands, a polite smile slipping into place as he turns towards the man. Liam watches him go, heart in his throat.

-

It takes another five minutes before someone comes to collect Liam, and he can't stop the jiggling of his leg the entire wait, even as the sole of his shoe squeaks incessantly against the shiny floor.

The guy is portly, his gut hanging over his brown leather belt, and he peers at Liam with watery blue eyes set in a ruddy, windburned face. “Mr. Payne?”

Liam gets to his feet quickly, heart racing.

“If you'll follow me.”

He leads Liam down a carpeted hall, the pattern, if there ever was one, long since faded with time and dust. Most of the office doors are closed, and even though he strains to hear, he doesn't catch the deep lull of Harry's voice behind any of them.

The man stops outside an open door halfway down the hall and gestures for Liam to enter. Inside the windowless office is a mostly barren desk, a computer monitor sitting off to one side, humming softly beneath the flickering fluorescent light overhead. The name plate on the desk reads Officer Peter Holt.

“Have a seat, Mr. Payne,” Officer Holt tells him, walking around the desk and settling himself in a wheeled office chair, which groans quite loudly in protest. Liam perches on the edge of his own seat, the same uncomfortable model featured in the waiting area.

Steepling his hands in front of his face, Officer Holt studies Liam with what Liam thinks uncharitably are rather beady eyes. “Mr. Payne,” he says at last. “Do you know why you're here today?”

Swallowing thickly, Liam nods.

“And what is your understanding?”

“I--” Liam forces himself to take a deep breath, to keep his voice steady, his words even. “My husband received a letter, stating that our marriage was suspected to be – to be fraudulent.”

Officer Holt watches him for a moment. “And is your marriage fraudulent, Mr. Payne?”

Liam hadn't expected him to just come right out and _ask_ , and the question throws him badly. He places his palms flat on his thighs, pressing down to keep his leg from jiggling, to keep his hands occupied. “It – of course not! We wouldn't be here today, defending ourselves, if it was.”

The expression on Officer Holt's face doesn't change. “Are you aware of the consequences of marriage fraud?”

“Yes,” Liam grinds out between his teeth.

“Jail time up to five years, and/or a fine of--”

“I said I was aware,” Liam interrupts. One of Officer Holt's eyebrows flicks.

“Are you also aware that those charged with marriage fraud may also be charged with visa fraud, harboring an alien, or conspiracy and making false statements, and that each charge carries additional prison sentences and financial penalties? I want you to understand, son, what you're risking today if you don't come clean.”

Liam thinks about Harry's hand in his, the way he'd squeeze Liam's fingers if he were sitting next to him now to reassure him that everything will be fine. “There's nothing to come clean about, sir.”

“Very well. Let's get started, shall we?”

The questions start out surprisingly easy, and Liam gives answers he's sure will match Harry's.

“When and where did you meet?”

“A little over two years ago, at a club.”

Officer Holt's fingers tap against his computer keys. “Could you describe the first meeting?”

“It was--” _Loud_ _, the beat pulsing in time with the flash of lights,_ _painting the writhing_ _throng_ _of bodies in a rainbow of neon. Liam skim_ _med_ _the room, but he_ _couldn't_ _see more than a slice of_ _the crowd_ _near the edge of the overflowing dance floor. It'd be useless to text; there's no way Louis would hear his phone_ _over the noise of the club_ _._

_He was hovering near the bar, awkward, when someone plastered themselves to his back, arms wrapped around his neck from behind, clinging like a drunken koala._

“ _Payno!” Louis shouted into his ear, and Liam could feel the way the smile pulled at his mouth, his hands coming up reflexively to hold Louis'. “You made it!”_

“ _Came as soon as I could,” Liam yelled back, head turned to the side so that Louis would have a prayer at hearing him. It put them cheek to cheek, Louis' stubble scraping against his jaw. There was sweat already pricking at his skin from the heat of the club, but he still shivered._

_Louis slid down his back to plant his feet back on the floor, but he kept an arm looped around Liam's neck, up on his toes like it was natural._

“ _C'mon,” he said. “Want you to meet someone.”_

_Liam allowed himself to be propelled along, apologies falling from his lips as Louis elbowed his way through the crowd, dragging Liam along for the ride. They didn't stop until they'd cleared the perimeter of the dance floor, Louis steering him towards a grouping of high-topped tables near the back of the club. Liam spotted Zayn's familiar quiff first, then the bright blond shock of Niall's._

_He didn't recognize the boy Louis planted him in front of, dark curls falling just below his chin, framing a wide mouth that curved into an easy smile, like the slow-motion strike of a match._

“ _This is Harry,” Louis shouted over the music. “Harry, this is Liam! The one I was telling you about.”_

_Harry offered him a hand, which was weirdly formal given the venue, but Liam took it nonetheless. He had a firm, dry grip, and squeezed Liam's fingers just a little too long before letting go._

“ _It's nice to finally meet you,” he said, barely loud enough to hear over the thumping bass line, forcing Liam to learn closer to catch the words. “I think Louis here is president of your fanclub.”_

_Harry had an accent Liam couldn't quite place. British, for sure, but different than Louis' rough Yorkshire, the edges of his words dipped in honey. Somehow, Louis' arm had migrated from around Liam's shoulders to around Harry's. He was about the same height as Liam, so Louis was still up on his toes, beaming as the neon light washed over the panes of his face. Harry's fingers were hooked around Louis' waist, slotting them together like adjacent puzzle pieces._

“ _We've been attached at the hip since freshman year,” Liam said, but he didn't know if they heard him over the music. Maybe it was better that way, because Louis was hip to hip with Harry now, his face turned up towards him, eyes barely there slits with the force of his grin._

_He'd apparently told Harry all about Liam, but he hadn't said a word to Liam about Harry. The story came tumbling out then, bits and pieces lost to the noise around them as Louis shouted it out._

“ _...up for the summer, pre-med, like a wanker, but it's… kept me sane while you lot were back home, I swear, if he hadn't been… twat of a flatmate, seriously, fucking prick, left him with a month's rent to cover...so it's sorted now, I'll sign the lease next month, then it'll be official.”_

“ _Sorry, what?” Liam said. “What will be official?”_

“ _Me and Harry,” Louis_ _said_ _, and Liam's stomach_ _didn't_ _drop so much as_ _it sank_ _. “Official flatmates! He_ cleans, _Liam – you'll be able to come over without being all judgy eyebrows!”_

_Liam blinked, and Louis slapped Harry's arm. “Look, look, just like that! See, what did I tell you? Have you ever been so judged by eyebrows in your life?”_

_When Harry grinned, dimples creased both cheeks. Liam felt distinctly outmatched, even as Harry drawled, “His eyebrows look normal to me, Lou.”_

_When Niall came crashing into their table yelling at the top of his lungs about shots, Liam didn't say no._

_He didn't remember much from the rest of the night, just Harry ducking down to whisper something in Louis' ear, red mouth moving soundlessly, Louis' fingers curled into his shirt, holding onto him like an anchor._

“--unexpected,” Liam says. “We met through a mutual friend during a night out at the beginning of junior year of college. We were drinking, so I don't remember how exactly we exchanged contact information – Harry might've taken my phone and added his number? I actually thought. Um, well Harry still doesn't know this, but I thought he was into my friend, at first. So I didn't really see him as a, uh, romantic option.”

Officer Holt gives no reaction, just types Liam's answers into the computer with the same dull expression on his face before reading off the next question. Liam's on a roll, confidence building, when a question finally catches him off guard, making him falter.

“What do the two of you have in common?”

“I – I mean, neither one of us is originally from New York. Uh, obviously, in Harry's case, but we were both drawn here, for school. I grew up on the East Coast, but I spent most of my summers in England with my mum's family, so it – it's nice, being with someone who can appreciate a good cup of tea, even if he doesn't add nearly enough sugar.”

Tearing his gaze from the monitor, Officer Holt stares at Liam. “Any hobbies in common?”

“Driving each other crazy?” Liam winces. “That was – bad joke, sorry.” He racks his brain, trying to come up with something. “We both like karaoke?”

“Right,” Officer Holt says. “Let's change gears, shall we? Tell me, when did the relationship turn romantic?”

Liam clears his throat, running his palms up and down his thighs. “It was – it's going to sound stupid, but – I think maybe since we first met?” Even as the words come out of his mouth, they surprise him, but Liam keeps going, running with it. “I didn't realize it, I thought I was just jealous because he was so close with my best friend, but then this year – it wasn't anything special, just a regular night out with the boys, but it – it was like something clicked, and I realized. It was him, y'know? I was in love with him, all along.”

The clack the keyboard unnerves him almost as much as the lack of reaction from Officer Holt. There's no way to gauge if Liam is bombing this interview, other than the obvious lack of handcuffs being slapped onto his wrists. He waits, holding his breath for the next question.

“Who proposed to who?” Officer Holt asks.

“I proposed to him,” Liam says immediately. “I found out he was leaving and I just – I kind of lost it. It was a really rash decision, we didn't even tell anyone, I – god, I never do things like that, barreling into something without planning it. There's something about Harry though. He makes me lose my mind a little.”

Officer Holt looks at him sharply, his eyes suddenly piercing. “So you admit you married him because he was leaving? To prevent his departure from the country?”

“No! No, it wasn't – I would've done it anyway. I would've married him regardless. We rushed things, maybe, because of the deadline, but – I knew, after that night. I knew I was going to marry him.”

The next question comes rapid fire. “What did you give each other for your last birthdays?”

“Um, well I'm really bad at gifts, so I asked my mate, and he said to get--”

“ _Scented candles? Are you serious, Lou?”_

_Louis shrugged. “He loves that shit. Seriously, have you seen our flat? It's a fucking fire hazard. Don't even ask him about wicks, he'll trap you in a twenty minute conversation that'll make you want to literally light yourself on fire.”_

_It was true; their flat did have an unusual number of candles scattered about. Liam had always figured that was to cover up the smell that seemed to permeate the space, always the strongest in Louis' room. Like unwashed socks and weed. Liam wasn't sure how Harry put up with it, actually._

_Candles, it turned out, were more expensive than Liam had anticipated, and there were so many smells to choose from. It'd taken him an embarrassingly long amount of time at the store, smelling each one to decide if a) he liked it b) he thought Harry would like it and c) if it was the sort of scent mates could give each other without things getting… weird._

_It was possible Liam was overthinking things._

_He ended up getting a woodsy, pine-like scented one and another that smelled like clean laundry, wrapping them hastily in tissue paper and shoving them into a fancy giftbag. By the time he finished showering and getting dressed, bundled up in coat and scarf for the cold walk to Harry and Louis', the party was in full swing._

“ _Liam!” Louis crowed when he answered the door. His face was already flushed, the hair falling over his forehead damp with sweat. “You're late!”_

_Shucking his coat off, Liam stepped through the doorway. It was loud, the small flat bursting at the seams, but then that was just like Louis, to throw Harry a wild party even though they'd probably end up with a noise violation and vomit on the carpet._

_Louis was pushing a drink into his hand, even as he said, “No, don't take your coat off! We're moving to Nick's, his flat is way bigger and--” Louis rolled his eyes “--he claims his sound system is better. Bit of a prick, if you ask me, but Harry's the birthday boy and he wants to go, so.”_

_Liam took a sip and winced. It tasted like straight vodka with just a splash of coke, burning his throat. “This drink's a bit strong, bro.”_

“ _You need to catch up!” Laughing, Louis pushed at the bottom of Liam's glass, until he took another gulp, coughing wetly._

“ _Christ, you're going to kill me, Lou.”_

_Still cackling, Louis leaned in, pushing up on his toes to say directly in Liam's ear, “Nick's going to hire a stripper. Harry's going to_ die _.”_

_And yes, it appeared that Liam really did need to catch up, if that's the direction the night was headed. Screwing his eyes shut, he swallowed what he could of the drink, swallowing against the burn. When he managed to blink away the tears in his eyes, Harry was standing there, cheeks pink, buttoned to the throat in a navy shirt with what appeared to be little white hearts dotting the fabric._

“ _You made it, Liam!” He sounded pleased, though Liam was nearly certain his invitation had come directly from Louis. “Is that for me?” he added, eyeing Liam's giftbag with obvious interest._

“ _Happy birthday,” Liam said, offering the bag with hesitation. It was one thing to give someone candles, but quite another to stand there and watch the judgment on their face as they opened it._

_Luckily, Harry had a house full of party guests to attend to. “I'll just set this aside in the bedroom for safe keeping, all right? Did Louis get you a drink? Better finish it quick, we're moving to Nick's soon.” He eyes shone when he added, almost shyly, “Nick says he's got a present for me that I'll never forget.”_

“ _I'm sure he does,” Liam managed._

_A month later, Harry still hadn't lived the night down. Liam noticed two new candles in the living room, though, tucked amongst the books and picture frames on the shelf._

“--candles. Harry's not an easy person to buy for, but he really likes them, so. Um, for my last birthday, he got me a snow globe? It was sweet, actually. He somehow remembered that I'd said I wanted one last spring. _I_ didn't even remember saying it, until he gave it to me.”

“What was in the snow globe?” Officer Holt asks, as if that detail is important. Before Liam can answer – a penguin on the beach, wearing a tiny pair of sunglasses – the phone on his desk lights up, ringing quietly. Looking sharply at Liam, Officer Holt picks up the receiver.

“Yes? Yes. No. You're sure? Okay.” He hangs up without saying bye, eyes still fixed steadily on Liam. “All right, it seems you're free to go, Mr. Payne. Don't go too far though. We'll be in touch.”

Liam falters, the words not quite clicking. “I – really?”

“Have a good day.”

Liam climbs to his feet, surprised when his legs hold him. Then he's out the door and down the hall towards the reception area before Officer Holt can change his mind and call him back. He's so desperate to leave he doesn't pay attention to where he's going, and knocks straight into Harry.

“Oh, god,” Liam says, and grabs Harry in a crushing hug, right there in the waiting area. “That was _horrible_.”

“Shh, babe, I know. Let's get out of here, okay?” Harry murmurs in his ear. Liam wants to go, but he also doesn't want Harry to stop rubbing his hands soothingly up and down his back. He releases him with reluctance, and Harry grabs his hand again, slotting their fingers together like a habit.

He keeps holding on as they wait for the lift, and as the numbers tick down to the ground floor. Harry holds Liam's hand until they've walked two blocks away and Liam's breathing hard, trying to keep up with Harry's rapid stride.

“Harry, hold up, c'mon, slow down, we're fine, it's fine, we made it through!” He laughs, dizzy with relief as it finally starts to sink in. “Oh my god, Haz, we really made it through.”

Harry pulls up short and Liam nearly bumps into him again.

“I need to tell you something,” Harry says.

There's something in his tone that makes Liam's blood turn to ice in his veins. He looks around, half expecting a squad car to pull up, lights blazing, for the both of them to be cuffed and booked, right there in the middle of the block.

“What is it?”

“I don't know how your interview went – couldn't have been that bad, since they let us go – but Liam, they were _so_ suspicious that we hadn't told our families.”

“But--” they hadn't even made it that far in Liam's interview. “But we said, about how my mum would be disappointed, and...” Liam trails off at the look on Harry's face. “There's something you're not telling me.”

Harry still hasn't dropped his hand, and his palm is damp against Liam's, clammy with nerves. “We have another interview in three months, Liam. They said our stories better corroborate next time, about how we tell our families and move in together.”

“About how...wait. _W_ _hat?_ ”

Harry looks miserable. “It's that, or they're going to push for the maximum sentence.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, comments/feedback hugely appreciated (especially if you've already left kudos and want to show more love :)). you can also come say on [tumblr](http://www.moondoggiestyle.tumblr.com)!


	4. in which harry and liam spin a web of lies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, a few notes. you'll notice the total chapter count has been bumped up to 9, since this chapter got out of hand and has been split into two parts. wish i could say that meant the next chapter will be posted sooner, but i still have to write the second part, so. oops?
> 
> no additional warnings for this chapter, just more emotional hurt/comfort and angst.
> 
> again, a massive, massive thank you to onewasturning and scottinski for their incredibly fast beta work & constant cheerleading. this fic would not be so on pace without them!! also, special thanks to songsfrombus1 for letting me bounce some ideas around, even if i ended up bouncing in a different direction.

In the street behind him, someone slams on their brakes, tires squealing against asphalt, and half a dozen cars honk in anger. Liam barely registers the noise. He's fixed on Harry, trying to process the words that make no sense.

“I don't understand,” Liam says. “We have three months – that's more than enough time to make our stories match.”

But Harry's shaking his head, the harsh November wind blowing his long hair into his eyes. Brushing it away with the hand not still tangled with Liam's, he says, “No, Liam. If we go in there and lie again, they're going to know. We have to get the details right, we have to actually tell our families, we – _fuck_ , we need to come back with a lease with both our names on it!”

Liam always thought the phrase “heart skips a beat” meant a pleasant little lurch in your chest; the freefall of a missed step before you catch yourself, safe after all. In reality, it's like a fist closing around his heart, the crushing weight of it suffocating for a single, infinite moment. It's hard to breathe, suddenly.

“I can't – Harry, I'm not going to _lie_ to my _family_.”

Beneath an overcast sky, Harry's eyes are a washed-out, flinty steel, barely green at all. “Well, I'm sure your mum will have a great time visiting you in jail, where you can tell her the truth all you want until visiting hours are up.”

Snapping his jaw shut, Liam rips his hand from Harry's grip, turning on his heel and stalking off. He might be walking towards the subway station; he might be walking towards nothing at all. All he cares is that it's away from Harry.

He makes it barely three steps before Harry's fingers curl around his arm, grip tight enough to pull Liam to a halt.

“Stop, stop, _wait._ Liam, I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry.” He sounds it, his voice nearly cracking, and Liam's shoulders sag, but he doesn't turn around.

“This is more than you signed up for,” Harry continues, a bit more steadily when Liam doesn't shake him off. “I get that, Liam, I do. But it's still – this isn't a lifetime commitment, okay? Longer than we thought, maybe, but it's not forever. Please don't act like being married to me is worse than a jail sentence. _Please_.”

The anger drains away as fast as it boiled over at the hurt in Harry's voice, leaving Liam feeling small and empty. No, that's not quite right – something like guilt sits heavily in his gut, crawling up to heat his face.

“I didn't – that's not what I meant to imply,” he says to his feet. Harry's still got his hand wrapped around Liam's elbow, the only point of contact between them. “Of course you're not worse than jail. I just.” He closes his eyes, takes a shuddering breath in. “My mum cries at everything, you know? She would have been sat at the first pew at my wedding, tears just streaming down her face. I didn't think – it's stupid, maybe, but I didn't think I'd be giving that up when I said we should do this.”

“I know, Liam.” Harry sounds as hollow as Liam feels.

“Can we go home?” Liam asks in a small voice. He has class later that he still hasn't done the reading for, but he feels like a husk, nothing left inside at all. Lying face down in bed for the rest of his life seems like the best option, given the circumstances.

Nodding, Harry drops finally his arm, turning in the direction of the subway. After a moment's hesitation, Liam reaches for his hand, linking their fingers together.

Harry's grip tightens in his, and for the first time today, Liam feels like he's done something right.

-

In the end, they don't talk about it for over a week. Liam has papers to write, and exams to study for, and a group project from hell where nobody pulls their weight and it all falls to him.

He comes out the other side exhausted to the bone, too tired to protest when Harry finds him on his usual couch in the student union and snuggles into his side, pulling Liam's arm over his shoulders like a security blanket.

“Hi,” Liam says, blinking down at him. He'd been halfheartedly highlighting lines of text while Zayn sat curled in the armchair across from him, absorbed in his book, but Liam finds himself happy with an excuse to take a break.

“Hi,” Harry says back, the word a bit muffled as he hides his face in Liam's chest. His hair has flopped in front of his eyes again, and Liam brushes it back from his face without really thinking about it. Harry nearly purrs.

“The two of you are sickening,” Zayn announces, and climbs to his feet, tucking his book away. “I'm going to get more caffeine. Catch you guys later.”

As Zayn walks off, a telltale smirk pulls at the corner of Harry's mouth, barely visible with the way his face is still tucked against Liam's shirt. Liam shakes his head, fingers still stroking Harry's soft hair. “You drove him off on purpose.”

“You helped,” Harry points out. A moment later, he adds, “Well, I did want to talk to you alone.”

And Liam knew this conversation was coming. He's got one final left before the end of the semester, then the yawning gap of winter break to fill with nothing but family time, or maybe some extra shifts at work before school kicks up again. It's the family time that's the problem, because it's the obvious opportunity to do what Liam's been dreading.

Heaving out a sigh, he says, “So. I assume you've got a game plan, then?”

Harry tips his face up, bottom lip caught between his teeth. It's been awhile since Liam has seen that particular nervous tic.

“You're not going to like it.”

Probably not, but Liam's trying to make more of an effort at thinking about his words before he says them. “Try me,” he says, capping his highlighter and shutting his textbook, giving Harry his full attention.

“I think,” Harry says at a snail's pace, his usual slow drawl slowed even further than normal, “that we should tell our parents together, over the winter hols. I come to yours, you come to mine. It's what we'd do if this were real, right? And then we'll have each other for moral support, or whatever.”

Harry's right. It makes the most sense, and Liam doesn't like it. His fingers trace the pattern of Harry's sleeve – a subdued flannel today, not unlike the shirts hanging in Liam's own closet – while he mulls over the options. “Suppose it'd be easy enough to get an extra train ticket so you could come with me,” Liam allows, when he fails to come up with any brilliant epiphanies.

“And I can get you a plane ticket with my step-dad's frequent flyer miles,” Harry's quick to say, the response clearly rehearsed.

“Harry--”

Placing a warm palm over Liam's mouth, Harry sits up, putting himself at Liam's eye level. “A plane ticket to England this short of notice isn't exactly cheap, Liam. Let's not fight about this, okay? I hate fighting with you.”

Liam grabs him gently by the wrist, pulling his hand away. “Yeah, all right,” he agrees with reluctance. It's not like he has the money for a plane ticket lying around, anyway.

Harry beams, and it's nice, being on the same page for once.

-

The night after his last exam, Liam's alone in his flat, slowly throwing clothes and things into his suitcase. He's shit at packing, has no idea where to even start given the circumstances, so the soft knock at the door is a welcome interruption.

He's expecting Harry, and the question is on the tip of his tongue, ready to ask what he should plan to bring with him for the week he'll be in England, when Liam swings the door open and nearly chokes.

It's Louis, looking small and cold, bundled up against the harsh bite of winter in New York.

“Lou,” Liam says, surprised. It's not that they haven't been talking, exactly, it's that the past few weeks have been filled to the brim with the end of the semester scramble of finals and papers, and also, they haven't been talking, really.

“Can I come in?” Louis asks, and the fact that he has to ask, doesn't just barge in Liam's space like he's entitled to it, hurts more than Liam expected.

“'Course,” Liam says, and shuffles back from the door, leaving a space for Louis.

Unwinding his scarf from around his neck, Louis slips past Liam. The scent of smoke follows him, clinging to his coat, like maybe he had a cigarette on the walk over. Liam shuts the door behind them with a quiet click.

Louis doesn't waste time. “Harry said I should apologize to you.”

“What--”

“But I'm not going to, because that's shit,” Louis finishes, cutting Liam off. He's got his arms crossed over his chest and his chin jutted out, blue eyes flashing like he expects a challenge.

“Why would Harry want you to apologize to _me_?” Liam asks, genuinely confused. If anyone's in the wrong, it's Liam. Louis' never made any kind of claim on Harry; at least, not in words. But even if Liam hadn't already suspected how Louis really felt, Louis' reaction at the pub was more than enough to convince him.

Louis snorts. “Maybe because he's biased? Look, I didn't--” he exhales noisily. “Believe it or not, I didn't come here to fight with you, Liam. I just wanted to put it all out there. I'm, like, I'm happy for you guys, or whatever, but it's just – it's shit, that you didn't tell me. You guys are my best mates, and I hate feeling like you're shutting me out.”

“No, Louis, it's not – it's not like that,” Liam says, the guilt already eating at him, climbing his esophagus with hands made of acid.

“Then why didn't you _say_ anything?”

Liam almost spills it all right then. It's on the tip of his tongue, the first crack of an avalanche, but he seals his lips against it, swallows it down. This isn't Louis' mess. He's just an innocent bystander, caught in the crossfire. Liam won't be the one to make him a casualty.

“You're right,” he says instead. “We should have told you. I'm sorry.”

The fight drains out of Louis at that, his shoulders sagging as the tension snaps. He rubs a hand over his face, fingers catching on his stubbled jaw. “Yeah, well, anyway. That's what I came here to say, so. Have a good break, all right?” He starts towards the door, but Liam reaches a hand out, stilling him. Louis just looks at him, one eyebrow raised.

Liam swallows. “I miss you, Lou. I never meant to shut you out.”

For a long moment, Louis just looks at him, eyes the color of ice. When his expression finally cracks, his smile is small, but genuine. “Yeah? That makes two of us.”

Taking a deep breath, Liam says, “I don't know, if Harry mentioned, but I'm – I'll be in England for a bit, over the break--”

Something in Louis' expression shutters, his smile going tight at the corners. “He mentioned, yeah.”

Nodding, Liam continues, pushing the words out quickly, “Well, when I get back, can we – I'd really like to hang out again. Get a drink, or something. Catch up on everything.”

“I could probably be convinced,” is all Louis says, wrapping his scarf around his neck again. He darts a hand out though, grabbing for Liam's nipple and twisting, before he dashes out the door.

It's a start.

-

Somehow, Liam fills his suitcase, and other than the knot of anxiety balled tightly in his gut, he's ready to go when Harry shows up on his doorstep the next morning, rosy-cheeked with cold. He kisses Liam on the cheek in greeting, and Liam remembers not to flinch. It almost feels like progress.

They take the train up towards Boston, and Harry falls asleep on Liam's shoulder, snoring softly. As their stop approaches, Liam thinks about letting him sleep, just riding the train to the edge of the world, or at least, until the track runs out.

In the end, he gently nudges Harry, until his eyes blink open, slowly focusing on Liam's face. He looks at Liam for a long moment, then around the car, wrist pressed to his mouth as he yawns.

“We're here already?”

“Next stop,” Liam tells him, flexing his fingers against the pins and needles dancing up and down his arm.

His parents wanted to meet him at the train station, of course, and it took a lot of convincing on Liam's part to talk his mum out of it.

“I'm – I'm bringing someone home with me,” he told her, holding onto his phone so tightly he was afraid he'd crush it. “He's really important to me. I, uh. I want the first time you meet him to be at home, not a crowded train station, okay?”

When they climb off the train, dragging their bulky suitcases behind them, Liam almost regrets not letting his mum and dad pick them up. It's crowded as they fight their way towards the taxi stand, and takes ages before they're able to grab one, piling into the backseat with heavy limbs.

Harry's quiet, but Liam is too, and the driver has the radio turned up loud enough that there's no need, really, to fill the space between them with words. The charade will start soon enough. Liam tries to mentally prepare himself.

Even though they took the train as far as they could, the cab ride is still expensive when it pulls to a stop in front of Liam's parents' house, tucked away on a quiet suburban street. Harry makes as if he's going for his wallet, but Liam waves him off. “I owe you, like five drinks,” he says. “Let me get the tab for once.”

There must be something in his tone, because Harry backs down without a fight. Liam forks over a handful of bills, and then they're climbing out, a thin layer of December snow crunching beneath their shoes. Liam leads the way up the front walk, Harry trailing behind him, and this is it, Liam thinks.

Show time.

His mum opens the door before Liam can even raise his hand to knock, warm light spilling out onto the concrete stoop, and then Liam's being hugged too hard to breathe, the scent of his mum's flowery perfume thick in his nose.

“Liam!” she says, pulling back just enough so that she can clasp his face between her hands. She kisses both cheeks, then hugs him again. “Oh, it's so good to have you home.”

“Mum,” Liam says, the word coming out muffled. “Mum, I have someone I want you to meet.”

Taking a step back, Liam half turns towards Harry, who's still stood on the pavement, waiting. The smile on his face is different than Liam's ever seen before, and it takes him a second to place why.

Harry's _nervous_.

“Hi,” he says, and Liam swears he sees Harry's eyes twinkle when he continues, “You must be Liam's sister. Ruth, is it?”

Liam's mum actually _giggles_ at that. “Oh, I bet you're quite the heartbreaker, aren't you?”

Harry just grins, offering his hand. “It's lovely to meet you, Mrs. Payne. Liam's told me so much about you and the family. It's nice to finally put a face to the names.”

When she shakes his hand, he leans forward, pressing a chaste kiss to her cheek. She seems a bit flustered, and Liam knows a little too well how that feels. “Please, call me Karen,” she says, wringing her hands. “Well, what are we all doing here, standing out in the cold? Come in, boys, come in. Geoff was just getting out the eggnog, we'll get you both a mug. You must be tired after the trip.”

“Yeah,” Liam agrees, shuffling through the door and stamping snow from his boots. “We'll just take our things up to my room first, okay? Be back down in a bit.”

“Hurry! Everyone is excited to meet your boy.” She offers Harry another warm smile before disappearing back towards the kitchen. Exhausted to the bone, Liam turns to go up the steps, trusting Harry to follow. The steps creak under his weight, Harry's footsteps echoing behind him.

Liam leads the way down the hall towards his childhood bedroom, and can't find the emotional energy to feel embarrassed at the outdated bedspread he's had since the 7th grade, the faded curtains even older. There are dog-eared posters still tacked to the walls and Marvel figurines crowding the top of his dresser. It's a snapshot of a life Liam doesn't live anymore.

Harry hovers in the doorway, one bag slung over his shoulder and a suitcase on wheels beside him. Dropping his own bags on the floor by the bed, Liam rubs a hand over his face, just breathing.

“You okay?” Harry asks. He still hasn't moved.

Liam's sick of lying, but telling the truth just now won't lead to any good outcomes. “I'm fine,” he says. “Just tired.”

Lips pursed, Harry takes a small step forward, swinging his bag off his shoulder and setting it down near the door, taking up the smallest amount of Liam's space possible. “If that's the best you can lie, we're going to be in trouble tonight.”

“Harry--”

He doesn't know what he's going to say, but Harry doesn't give him the chance to figure it out. Striding forward, he grabs Liam's hands, lacing their fingers together.

“Listen,” he says, low and intense. “My parents know a few attorneys, could probably find someone who specializes in immigration law, or fraud, or whatever. If you – if you really don't want to go through with this, we could probably fight it. Maybe get off with just paying the fine.”

The sound that escapes Liam's throat is closer to a sob than a laugh. He hopes Harry's nice enough to pretend not to notice. “Bit late to mention that, don't you think?”

Harry tosses his head, shaking a stray lock of hair from his eyes, his fingers still busy holding onto Liam's. “I'm in debt up to my eyes with student loans and the legal fees would be astronomical. We'd probably spend the rest of our lives paying them off. I'm not saying it's a great option, but it – you're clearly miserable, Liam.”

It's easier to look at the way their fingers slot together than Harry's eyes, to see the sincerity he knows is shining there. That Harry would even offer is more decency than he owes Liam. There's a sudden lump in Liam's throat, making it hard to swallow.

“Thanks, Harry,” he says once he finds his voice again. “You – you're more than I deserve, you know that?”

He looks up in time to see Harry's mouth curve up, just a little. “For better or worse,” he murmurs, squeezing Liam's fingers.

Letting his eyes slip shut, Liam shuffles forward a step, until their foreheads bump. He stands there, temple to temple with Harry, hands still clasped between them. “I can do this,” he says. “I _want_ to do this. I mean,” he amends, “I hate the lying, but I – I could do a lot worse than you, Styles.”

He can feel more than hear Harry's laugh, a warm puff of air against his lips. “You sure know how to make a guy feel special.”

“Shut up,” Liam says, taking a step back. He keeps his fingers linked with Harry's.

-

Dinner is a surprisingly fun affair. Someone's spiked the eggnog – Ruth, if Liam had to guess – and a glass or two soothes the frayed edges of his nerves. Harry makes it look easy, of course, draping his arm over Liam's shoulder, or squeezing his hip as he sneaks by Liam to the kitchen to help his mum carry the food out to the table, playing the part like he was born for it.

He charms them all before Liam's mum has brought out dessert, and even Liam's dad looks like he's half in love with Harry, ready to adopt him into the family. Laughing at one of his dad's stupid jokes with an endearingly loud bark, Harry slides his hand over Liam's knee beneath the tablecloth, the way Liam imagines he'd treat his actual boyfriend. Liam has to fix a smile on his face, wrapping his fingers around Harry's wrist to keep his hand from wandering up his thigh. Other than the way his dimple deepens, Harry gives no sign he's noticed Liam's response.

“What are you doing?” Liam hisses as quietly as he can manage when Ruth starts in on a story about her boss and the saga of getting more toner for the copy machine, maybe. It's hard to focus on anything that isn't the heat of Harry's hand, leeching through the fabric of his jeans.

Harry glances at him. “Nothing,” he says, blinking innocently.

No one notices at least, except maybe Nicola, who doesn't do more than smirk before turning her attention back to Ruth's story. Liam has the best sisters.

All in all, things are going well. His mum's made chocolate cake for dessert, and Harry, ever the gentleman, offers to take the dirty dishes to the kitchen before she brings it out. “I'll help,” Liam volunteers quickly, because he doesn't plan to spend the next year hearing about how wonderful Harry is, and why can't Liam be more like him?

The problem is that they both reach the doorway at the same time, nearly bumping into each other. Harry takes a half step back, letting Liam through first, and that's when Nicola opens her big mouth.

“Hey, not so fast. Aren't you boys forgetting something?”

Between them, they've got all of the plates and utensils. Liam frowns down at his occupied hands, then at Harry's, and then frowns at Nicola. “What?”

The smirk is back on her face when she points up. Liam follows her finger, and his stomach drops.

Hanging above their heads is a festive little bough of mistletoe, wrapped up neatly with a bright red ribbon.

“Is that holly?' Liam tries, and Ruth snorts into her glass. Liam hopes eggnog goes up her nose.

“Don't be shy, little brother,” Nicola says, looking entirely too amused. “I know you and Harry were just looking for an excuse.”

Liam has the worst sisters. His hands are still full, same as Harry's, and Harry gives him a _look_ , angling himself under the pretense of shifting his weight from one foot to the other so that Liam's the only one who can see his face. He bites his lip and Liam's eyes drop involuntarily to track the movement before snapping back up. Liam's got a heartbeat, maybe two, to decide what to do.

“Kiss, kiss, kiss!” Ruth and Nicola start chanting, and there's laughter in their voices, even as his mum tries to shush them. One of Harry's eyebrows twitches up, asking the silent question.

It's not worse than jail, Liam reminds himself. It's a lie, and a betrayal, but in the end, it's just a kiss. He takes a step towards Harry, leaning in. At least with his hands occupied, Liam doesn't have to figure out what to do with them, if cupping Harry's cheek would be too much, or not enough.

Harry's eyes flutter shut, but Liam keeps his open, at least until he's sure they won't bump noses. The second their lips catch, he lets his eyes close, too. All of Liam's senses boil down to touch – the smooth ceramic plates stacked in his sweat-slick hands, the way his collar itches against the back of his neck, Harry's chapped bottom lip, the hint of wetness as he pulls away.

When Liam opens his eyes, Harry's already looking at him.

“We should,” Liam swallows, licks his lips. “We should take these to the kitchen.”

“Yeah,” Harry says, sounding a little hoarse. He clears his throat, and Liam turns on his heel, unable to look at the expressions on his sisters' faces. This time, they're able to make their escape to the kitchen, and Liam drops his stack of plates in the sink with a crash.

“Shit,” Harry says, voice soft. “Shit, that was--”

“I'm sorry,” Liam interrupts, turning to grab the rest of the plates from Harry. He throws those into the sink as well, not really caring if they crack. “We didn't talk about that, I had no idea they were going to, I wasn't--”

“Liam.” It's Harry's turn to interrupt. His fingers land on Liam's back, tracing up his spine. “It's fine.” He finds the collar of Liam's shirt, fingertips dipping over the edge to rub against the skin of Liam's neck. “You want it to be believable when you tell them, yeah? It'd be weird, if we balked at kissing.” As if to punctuate his words, he leans in, lips pressing briefly to Liam's neck, just above his fingers. Liam fights a shiver.

“We should get the cake, before they wonder what we're up to in here,” Liam manages. He swears he can feel the spot Harry kissed tingling.

“All right,” Harry agrees, backing out of Liam's space. Liam can't forget the way it feels, though, having him pressed closed.

Worst of all, he's not sure if he wants to.

-

Liam diligently avoids the mistletoe the rest of the night, though he can't avoid the arm Harry keeps draped over his shoulders, or the knowing looks his sisters keep shooting him. He jumps at the chance to help his mum do the washing up as the night starts to wind down, especially when she shoots down Harry's offer to help, too.

“No, love, you just sit right there and relax. Do you want another slice of cake?”

“Oh, Karen, I couldn't. I'm stuffed full,” he says, rubbing at his stomach with a rueful little smile. Liam escapes to the kitchen while she fusses over Harry, filling the sink with hot, soapy water.

He's already scrubbed a plate clean by the time she makes it to the kitchen. “So,” Liam says, suddenly nervous as his mum bustles over to one of the drawers, pulling out a clean towel. “What do you think?”

“I'm just so happy for you, Liam,” his mum says, taking the dripping plate from him and toweling it off. Shaking her head fondly, she slots the dish into the drying rack, grabbing the next one from Liam's grip. “Honestly, when you called to say you were bringing someone, I thought it was going to be that Louis boy you always talk about.”

The dish Liam was holding slips through his soapy fingers, splashing water halfway up his chest. He just barely catches himself from swearing.

“It's not – me 'n Lou were never like that, mum,” he mumbles, ducking his head.

“I know, I know, you always said that,” she says. “But your face would just light up whenever you talked about him. I always wondered.”

Liam's cheeks are hot, and he ducks his head. “Mum.”

“Don't get me wrong, Harry is just lovely. I can see how happy he makes you, Liam. He's a good one.” She nudges Liam's side with her elbow, busy drying the dish in her hands. “Don't let him get away.”

Liam's fingers find the edge of the plate, but he can't get a grip on it, the wet ceramic slippery against his skin. “That won't be a problem,” he says, and in a burst of courage – or maybe cowardice – he pushes the words out, “because I've already married him.”

The kitchen is suddenly silent. Liam doesn't risk looking up.

“Liam,” his mum says after an eon. “Don't joke about that.”

Lifting his head to meet his mum's eye is the hardest thing he's ever done. “I'm not joking, mum,” he says, and his voice trembles, but only a little.

The color drains from his mum's face, and for a single, heart-stopping moment, Liam thinks this is it. He's given his own mother a heart attack because a stupid idea spiraled out of control. Then suddenly her arms are around him, holding him tight, and her breathing goes all shaky with tell-tale tears.

Liam hugs her back just as fiercely, nevermind his wet, soapy hands, and over his mum's shoulder, he sees Harry standing in the kitchen doorway, frozen in place with wide-eyed shock.

“Liam,” his mum is babbling, “Love, why didn't you say anything? Oh, I don't – _Liam_.”

Slowly, Harry backs away, his eyes on Liam the whole time. Liam presses his face into his mum's neck, hunching down like he's not a grown up, but a little kid who can still hide from the world when things get too hard.

-

She wants the full story of course, every single detail, and Liam fumbles for an excuse not to give it. “We – mum, I swear, we didn't plan for it to happen like this, we just – it's important to Harry, that we tell you together, all right? I think – I know I've just dropped a huge bomb here, and ruined Christmas, but if we all just sleep on it, in the morning it'll be--” well, not better. But maybe--

“You haven't ruined anything,” his mum says, and she sounds fierce, even as her eyes are wet with unshed tears. They'll be trailing down her cheeks soon enough, and if she hadn't already cried at a commercial with baby ducks tonight, the guilt would eat Liam up completely. “I promise you haven't. Of course we can all sleep on it, and – oh, but Harry will sleep in your room, of course. I think we have an air mattress in the basement? You both won't fit in that tiny twin bed.”

“ _Mum_.” Liam doesn't know how he didn't think to prepare for the mortification of his mum assuming that they were sleeping together. “It's fine, he's only staying for the night. I'll get some extra blankets, crash on the floor.”

Sniffling a bit, his mum nods. “Of course, of course. I'll make a big breakfast tomorrow, all right? How does Harry take his eggs? I thought we could go to that cafe you like for lunch, with the sandwiches – there will be time before his flight tomorrow, won't there?”

“We'll work it out,” Liam promises, and hastily presses a kiss to her cheek. “I'm going to head up to bed, all right? I need to talk to Harry.”

It takes five more minutes of fussing before Liam's able to make his escape. His sisters are watching a movie in the living room, his dad snoring away in the armchair, but Harry's nowhere to be found.

“Went up to bed,” Ruth tells him, when she catches him hovering in the doorway. “Looked tired out.” In the flickering light from the TV, her smile is soft. “You caught yourself a good one, baby brother.”

The sudden lump in Liam's throat makes it hard to speak. “Thanks,” he says, barely more than a croak, and flees before he can do something embarrassing like cry.

-

It's selfish, maybe, to take a long, hot shower while Harry's holed himself up in Liam's room, waiting on him, but Liam does it anyway. He hasn't got anything left, but not even the scalding water recharges him. Shutting off the faucet, Liam climbs from the tub still dripping, toweling himself off roughly. All his clothes are in the bedroom with Harry, which is probably something he should have considered before stripping off, but it's too late to worry about it now.

When he pushes his bedroom door open, Harry's chin snaps up, like he'd drifted off where he was sitting at the end of Liam's bed, propped up against the wall.

“Liam,” he says, gaze sliding up Liam's body before settling on his face. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean – I shouldn't have listened to any of that, in the kitchen.”

Part of Liam wants to ask how long Harry was standing there, how much he heard. Instead, he says, “You couldn't have known. I just kind of blurted it out.”

Harry doesn't say anything else. He just stares at his knees while Liam gets dressed, pulling on whatever's at the top of his suitcase.

“You can take the bed,” Liam tells him. “I'm just going to grab some more blankets from the linen closet.”

By the time he gets back, arms full, Harry's managed to get himself horizontal, if not quite tucked beneath Liam's old comforter. Liam drops his blankets onto the floor, fashioning himself a makeshift pallet on the worn carpet.

It's quiet, save for their careful breathing, as Liam eases himself onto his back, pulling his blanket up to his chin. Harry reaches over to turn off the light with a click, plunging them into darkness, and it only amplifies the sounds of the mattress creaking as Harry shifts, the way he's breathing too quickly for Liam to even pretend that he's fallen asleep.

“I'm sorry, Liam,” Harry says out of nowhere, voice pitched low. “I know that was really hard for you.” He exhales noisily. “You wouldn't be in this mess if it weren't for me and my stupid Visa. I just – thank you, for helping me out in the first place, and I'm sorry, that this is how it's ended up.”

The lump in Liam's throat is too big. He can't force any words past it at all. Horrifyingly, he makes a wet, sniffling noise, and the mattress groans loudly.

“Liam,” Harry murmurs, and then it's the floorboards groaning as Harry rolls out of bed, sinking to his knees next to Liam. “Hey, hey, it's all right,” Harry says, his hands fumbling in the dark until his fingertips brush Liam's cheek, his thumbs tracing gently over the tender skin under Liam's eyes.

“Sorry,” Liam gasps, eyes screwed tightly shut. Harry's hands are so, so gentle. “You're not worse than jail,” he manages. “I just--”

Harry lets out a choked little laugh, his face close enough to Liam's that he can feel the warmth of his breath. “I know,” Harry says, and he curls into Liam's side, his arm a heavy weight over Liam's chest, holding him close.

He doesn't, though. He can't know what Liam means, because Liam himself can't figure out if he's more upset about lying, or the fact that none of this is real.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, i live for feedback/comments. you can also drop by on [tumblr](http://www.moondoggiestyle.tumblr.com/)!


	5. in which liam is in over his head

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, we've finally cracked the halfway point. the finish line is in sight, but we have more angst to go. no additional warnings/tags for this chapter, although that should be changing with the next few updates :)
> 
> thanks again to onewasturning and scottinski for their incredible, speedy beta work and cheerleading <333

By the time Liam's dad tosses him the keys to his car to drive Harry to the airport, Liam is ready to sleep for a week, or maybe the next year. Slotting the key into the ignition, he starts the engine with a sputtering roar, letting it run to heat up the car while he helps Harry get his bags loaded into the back.

“I really could just take a cab,” Harry says as Liam slams the trunk shut.

Liam snorts. “And have my mum nag me about it the rest of the holiday? I don't think so.” He thinks about it, then adds, “And I mean, it's the right thing to do. Um, I mean. I'd do the same for any of you boys.”

The look Harry shoots him isn't exactly impressed. “Sure, Liam.”

“I would!” Liam insists, even though he's pretty sure that's not actually what they're arguing about. Harry seems content to let it drop though, folding himself into the passenger seat without further comment. Liam follows suit, climbing in behind the wheel.

It's not a long drive to Logan International, but the traffic's terrible and the roads are slick with icy sleet. They have to crawl along at a snail's pace.

“Okay,” Harry says, finally breaking the silence as Liam pulls onto the interstate going ten under the speed limit, “maybe you were right, leaving this early. At this rate I might actually miss my flight.”

“I'll get you there,” Liam promises, and carefully doesn't mention the real reason he insisted they leave for the airport three hours early. TSA restrictions, bad weather, holiday traffic – the excuses came easily. _I'm going to have a breakdown if I have to sit in front of my parents and pretend this is all real for another second,_ while true, just didn't have the same ring to it.

Harry's probably guessed, anyway.

Sure enough, Liam's barely even merged into the clogged flow of traffic before Harry's opening his mouth, putting it out there.

“So,” he says, sounding almost tentative. “How are you feeling about everything?”

Liam's fingers flex on the steering wheel, knuckles going white. “I don't know,” he says after a long moment.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see that Harry's looking at him, green eyes piercing. “That bad, huh?”

“I didn't say that,” Liam objects. The heaviness of Harry's gaze weighs on him, even though Liam's careful to focus on the taillights ahead of them, foot steady on the accelerator. Harry waits him out, and Liam sighs. “It was just, I dunno. Different than I expected, is all.”

Harry mulls this over, fingers tapping out an uneven rhythm on his denim knees. Liam flips on his blinker, merging into the left lane before Harry finally asks, “What were you expecting?”

That one is easy, at least. Liam was expecting tears (which there were) and for his mum to forgive him (which she did). He was also expecting to suffocate under the weight of his own guilt (he survived, and gives himself partial credit).

It's the follow up question he knows Harry's going to ask that he doesn't want to answer.

(Because Liam _wasn't_ expecting for it to be easy, the way Harry laced his fingers through Liam's, their clasped hands resting on Harry's thigh. He wasn't expecting to feel grounded when Harry's thumb swept over his knuckles, and his knee bumped Liam's beneath the table.

It turns out the hardest part of being married to Harry is remembering that none of it is real in the end. And Liam wasn't expecting that at all.)

“I think you were right,” he says, shooting Harry a quick glance before turning his attention back to the road. “About the – the touching, or whatever. It's good that we practiced. Feels almost, like, natural, when we hold hands and stuff.”

As subject changes go, it's fairly obvious. It only throws Harry for a moment. “Oh,” he says. “Well, yeah. And listen, about the mistletoe--”

“Don't worry about it,” Liam says, voice firm.

There's a beat of silence. “You don't even know what I was going to say.”

“I don't,” Liam licks his lips, swallowing back saliva. “I don't really want to talk about it, if that's okay.” He closes his eyes, just for a second, as much selfishness as he'll allow himself while he's behind the wheel. When he opens them again, he adds, “Sorry, I'm not trying to – sorry.”

He's not even sure what he's trying to say, but Harry seems to get it anyway.

“'S'all right,” he says, finally looking away from Liam. Liam probably imagines that he can hear the sound of Harry's forehead thunking against the window. After a long moment, when the silence between them has grown into something almost tangible, suffocating in its loudness, Liam reaches out and turns the radio up. Before he grabs the wheel again, he wraps his fingers around Harry's wrist for a brief second, squeezing lightly.

-

There's no one around to judge Liam for being a bad boyfriend – husband – _whatever_ – and pulling into the designated drop-off lot to let Harry fend for his own. Harry's more than capable of taking the shuttle to the terminal, but all the same, Liam follows the signs to one of the short-term parking lots, killing the ignition once he pulls into a stall.

The corner of Harry's mouth quirks. “Pretty sure I can find the gate on my own, Liam.”

Liam's already unbuckled his seat belt. “I drove you all the way here. Let me see this through, yeah?”

They have a brief disagreement over who's going to carry Harry's bags – Liam wins, but the set of Harry's mouth says Liam's started a war he's doomed to lose – and pushing through the throngs of people while trying to navigate the airport's maze-like layout means there's no time for Harry to bring up any more uncomfortable topics before there's an entire ocean separating them.

When they reach the security gate and Liam can't go any further, they both pause, two still figures in a sea of restless motion.

“Well,” Harry says, reaching for his bag. Liam hands it over, fumbling with the strap. “Have a good Christmas, yeah?”

“You, too,” Liam says, shoving his hands in his pockets because he doesn't know what else to do with them. With an eyeroll that's weirdly fond, Harry throws his arms out, pulling Liam into a quick, bone-squeezing hug. He punctuates it with a peck on the cheek before he pulls back.

It feels like Liam should reciprocate, but the hug's already over and his hands are still at his sides like an idiot. Going on instinct, Liam reaches out and ruffles Harry's hair instead, petting the top of his head like he's a particularly shaggy dog. That earns him a smile, at least, and Harry shakes his head, shuffling away from Liam and towards the teeming line to get through the security checkpoint.

He's only taken a few steps before he turns around again, calling Liam's name.

“Yeah?”

“Thanks,” Harry says, pitching his voice loud enough to be heard over the crowd. “For everything. Seriously.” His lips are parted, like maybe he's got more to say, but someone jostles him and the moment passes. Harry lets himself be swept along towards the security gate, folded into the mass of people.

Liam stands there, hands back in his pockets, until the crowd grows too thick to see Harry anymore. Then he turns around and heads back to the car alone.

-

It's late by the time Liam hears from Harry, just a simple text buzzing through after Liam's long since tucked himself into bed.

_Made it safe. Xx H_

Liam stares at the message until his screen goes dark, but can't think of anything to say in reply.

-

There's last minute Christmas shopping, and obligatory family commitments, and a Skype session with Zayn where they very carefully skirt around the topic of Harry (Liam, in retrospect, should have gotten Zayn a better gift; he's the best best friend Liam could ask for, honestly), and before Liam knows it, Christmas Eve has rolled around.

He's not a little kid anymore, but the excitement still keeps him up half the night, fidgeting underneath the covers. Rolling onto his side, his cheek pressed to the pillow, Liam tries not to think about the package he slipped into Harry's bag while Harry was in the shower, hours before their drive to the airport just a few days before. With the difference in time zones, it's entirely possible Harry's opened it already. He won't text until he knows Liam's up, so there's no point in worrying about his reaction just yet, Liam reasons with himself.

His brain doesn't want to listen to reason, though, and he frets about it until Ruth bursts into his room come the first light of morning, throwing herself onto Liam's bed hard enough to bounce on the mattress like she's all of six years old.

“You are an adult woman,” Liam tells her, pulling the covers over his head.

“ _Presents_ ,” Ruth shouts gleefully, because she's as excitable about these sorts of things as Liam is when he hasn't been up half the night worrying about things he has no control over. All the same, it doesn't take that much coaxing to get Liam out of bed, especially when the smell of coffee hits his nose halfway down the stairs.

He gets distracted at the sight of all the carefully wrapped gifts scattered under the tree, and it's all downhill from there, really. Liam forgets that there are things to be stressed about when he starts to rip into his presents, tearing off the colorful paper while his sisters laugh. He's too old for toys, but he hasn't outgrown the bubbling feeling of happiness Christmas morning brings. When he opens up a watch from his dad, the gold plated band catching in the light, Liam's smiling so hard his cheeks hurt.

“Nicola, grab that bag from behind the tree, would you? I think that's the last of the presents,” Liam's mum says as the fervor starts to die down. Nicola reaches for the bag as asked, frowning at it when she can't find the tag for who it's for.

“Oh,” she says, peering inside. “Mum, there're more presents in here.” Reaching her hand inside, she pulls the first one out, and Liam's heart stutters when he sees the careful handwriting spelling out _Ruth_ in black Sharpie on the gift wrap.

There's a present for each of them, neatly labeled in Harry's writing.

“Liam,” his mum says. “Harry didn't need to get us all gifts!” It hasn't stopped her from opening the gift, of course, going slow so she didn't rip the paper. Harry's gotten her what looks to be a silk scarf, the fabric soft, if the way she rubs it against her cheek is anything to go by.

Liam holds out his hands, palm up. “I didn't know he was going to!” His own present from Harry is small, but heavy, cradled in Liam's lap. He's a little afraid to open it, knowing his own gift is probably inadequate in comparison. With fingers that aren't quite steady, Liam finds the edge of the paper, slotting his nail underneath. He tears the paper anyway, despite his best efforts, and gives up, ripping into it.

When Liam realizes what he's holding, he laughs out loud. It's a snow globe with two penguins snuggled together, wearing little hats and scarves. There's a card tucked underneath that reads simply, _For your collection. Hope you collect a better husband someday. H._

Liam flips the card face down before anyone can see it, shaking the globe so that the penguins are stuck in a blizzard, glittering snow swirling all around them.

-

In what feels like no time at all, Liam's packing his bags up again, hugging his mum and sisters goodbye with promises to call at least once a week, he swears. The tires of his dad's car don't have to battle sleet-slick pavement this go round as they follow the same traffic-clogged roads to the airport, Liam buckled in the passenger seat as his dad drives. Liam keeps his gaze fixed out the window, watching as barren, snow-covered fields whip by. The buildings get denser and denser the closer they get to Boston, the horizon eaten up by skyscrapers.

His dad lets the car idle in one of the designated drop-off lots as Liam grabs his bags from the trunk, and after a bone-crushing hug and a gruff, “take care, son,” Liam's boarding the shuttle to the terminal.

It's a six-and-half-hour flight to Heathrow, and Liam naps most of it, headphones covering his ears to block out the noise. His stomach cooperates until the descent, but it's not the landing that has Liam's gut doing flips.

The wait for the baggage claim to hum to life has his leg jiggling, and by the time Liam's grabbed his suitcase off the carousel, his palms have gone clammy. Wheeling his case behind him, Liam follows the signs towards the exit, where hopefully Harry is waiting for him like they agreed.

Nerves crawl slowly up Liam's esophagus in a chokehold as he scans the crowd, but panic doesn't have time to set in before he's spotted Harry's tall, gangly form near the doors, his long hair flowing freely past his shoulders. What makes Liam pull up short is the two women flanking Harry, their features so similar to his that there's clearly a common gene pool.

Oh, god. Harry's brought his family.

It's obvious the moment Harry sees him, his face splitting into a wide grin. He pulls away from who Liam assumes are his mother and sister, breaking into a jog across the terminal to meet Liam halfway. When he reaches Liam, Harry practically throws himself into Liam's arms, and Liam has to drop his bags to catch him before they both end up in a pile of limbs on the ground. Harry smacks a kiss to Liam's face, half his mouth catching Liam's cheek and the other half catching Liam's lips. Liam doesn't know which one he was aiming for.

“Sorry,” Harry murmurs low in Liam's ear. “I tried to talk them out of coming with me, but they weren't having it.”

“It's fine,” Liam lies as Harry releases him. Harry reaches for the bag Liam's dropped, the uptick of his eyebrow a challenge he knows Liam won't fight him on. Swinging the strap over his own shoulder, he offers Liam a hand, and together they make the trek back to Harry's family.

By now, Harry must be used to Liam's clammy palms. He doesn't drop Liam's hand, and Liam's grateful for it when they reach the two women who wear a prettier version of Harry's already pretty face, and Harry says, with a note of pride in his voice, “Mum, Gem, this is Liam.”

“Hi,” Liam says, throat clogged with nerves. He clears it before adding, “It's lovely to meet you.”

There's a flurry of hand shaking and cheek kissing, and then the mad scramble to push their way out of the crowded airport to where Harry swears they parked the car. Liam's bags are stowed away in the back, Harry grinning smugly at him all the while, and then Liam's climbing after Harry into the backseat.

It's obvious at once where Harry gets his charm.

“Liam,” Harry's mum says, catching his eye in the rear view mirror as she backs out of the parking stall, “you never said how your flight was.”

“Oh, well, I mean,” Liam starts, but Gemma's quick to cut in before he can really respond.

“Yeah,” she says, twisted around in her seat so that Liam catches the full force of her grin, “was it worth it to fly all the way across an ocean, just to see this idiot?”

Harry scoffs, his features contorted in mock outrage. “Hey. Don't bully Liam, he's done nothing to you.”

“My flight was fine,” Liam says, and when Harry reaches across the seat to link their fingers, he doesn't miss the way Gemma's eyes drop, something in her smile going soft.

“I'm not bullying Liam,” she insists, tucking her hair behind her ear in a gesture eerily similar to Harry. “I'm just making sure he knows what he's signed up for, dating you. I love you, H, but you _are_ an idiot.”

“Gem, play nice,” Harry's mum says in the weary tone of someone who knows her son is an idiot, and is used to defending him on principle. Gemma purses her lips together in exaggeration, still facing backwards, and Harry kicks the back of her seat.

“Strangely enough,” Liam says, heart thudding against his rib cage. “It really was worth it.”

Harry's answering grin is bright enough to power a small village, in Liam's rough estimation.

-

When they reach the house, Liam is completely unsurprised when Harry grabs his bags from the trunk, waving off Liam's offers to help. “It's my turn,” he reminds Liam, mouth a lopsided smirk. He trudges into the house before Liam can protest, leaving Liam to follow after him.

With the script flipped, Liam's left fumbling for even footing. It's different, feeling like he's on Harry's turf, and he has a new appreciation for how difficult it must've been for Harry, keeping the charade up with Liam's family around. The relief is nearly overwhelming when Harry takes Liam straight to his room to drop his bags off, closing the door behind them.

Liam sinks onto the edge of Harry's mattress, rubbing his hands up and down his thighs.

“You all right?” Harry asks. “Sorry about--” he waves a hand around, flapping vaguely. “They mean well, I swear.”

Liam shakes his head. “Yeah, no, I can tell. They, um. They're great, Harry. They're so much like you, it's insane.”

For a moment, Harry doesn't look like he quite knows what to do with that, but he eventually settles on a smile. “Thanks. I think.”

“Promise, that wasn't an insult.”

“Yeah,” Harry says, and Liam doesn't know how to read the look on his face. “I'm starting to get that.” Before Liam can ask what that's supposed to mean, Harry drops onto the bed next to him, a few scant inches between their thighs. “So, listen. You probably guessed this, cos of what Gem said in the car, but I haven't told them yet, about the whole, y'know, being married thing.”

Liam swallows.

“I was thinking,” Harry continues, shoving his fingers through his hair to push it back from his forehead. “That we could tell them together, if you – if you're comfortable with that. Sort of what we did with your family, only, you know.” Harry hasn't already blurted it out while doing the dishes. Liam knows.

“Yeah,” Liam says, tracing his finger over the seam of his jeans. “It's your family, bro. However you want to tell them is fine by me.”

Harry's shoulder nudges Liam's, and when Liam looks over, Harry catches his eye, maintaining eye contact. “I'm serious, Liam. I know it wasn't, like, easy, telling your mum, and, um. Lying, like that. I won't put you through that again, if you don't want.” The corners of his mouth turn up in a rueful smile. “My family already knows I'm an idiot though, clearly. It'll probably be a lot more of me trying to convince them that I somehow got someone like you to marry me.”

Liam frowns. “I don't think you're an idiot.” He also wants to know what Harry means by _someone like you_ , but he's too afraid to ask.

“That's perfect, Liam. Keep saying it just like that, okay?” He pushes to his feet, holding out a hand for Liam. “C'mon. We got this.”

-

All Liam's tops are wrinkled from being shoved into his suitcase, but Harry tells him it's fine, he looks fine, _no one will care, Liam, I promise_.

Liam still tugs anxiously at the bottom of his shirt as they walk down the street towards the restaurant, until Harry grabs for his hand. It's starting to feel more natural, having his palm pressed to Harry's, like there's something missing when he leaves his hand to dangle at his side on its own. There's also the fact that it's an easy way to imply intimacy without actually being all that intimate, which Liam needs to stop forgetting is the point.

Harry's step-dad made reservations, so they don't have to wait for a table, despite the group of people lingering just inside the doors, impatience written on their faces. After being lead to a table tucked away in a quiet corner, Liam winds up sitting between Harry and Gemma, and directly across from Harry's mum – Anne, he reminds, she said to call her Anne. He's spent the better part of the afternoon in Anne's kitchen, laughing at stories from Harry's childhood while Harry alternatively preened with pride, or hid his face in embarrassment. After a few hours, the knots of tension in his muscles had loosened, and hadn't tightened again until Harry pressed in close to whisper in Liam's ear, “We'll tell them at dinner tonight, okay?”

When the waiter comes around to take their drink order, Harry orders some fancy cocktail that has more fruit products in it than alcohol. Liam points to the first beer he sees on the menu. He's fairly certain he'll be too anxious to really taste it, anyway.

The conversation starts out fairly tame. What's Liam majoring in, what does he plan to do once he graduates, how is his family, did they have a lovely Christmas?

“Oh, yes,” Liam says, fidgeting in his seat. He was right, he barely tastes his beer as he takes another pull. “I almost forgot, Harry, my mum said to tell you thanks for the scarf. She really loves it.”

There's a pleased little curve to Harry's mouth, but he just ducks his head, letting a curtain of hair fall in front of his face.

“Getting gifts for the in-laws already, huh?” Gemma asks, sipping at her own drink. Her smile is friendly, but her eyes are sharp, even in the softly lit restaurant. “You two are pretty serious. How long did you say you've been dating, again?”

“I'm feeling judged,” Harry announces, while Liam tries not to choke. The beer in his stomach turns to lead. If Harry was waiting for an opportunity to drop the news, this is it. “Maybe Liam and I haven't been together that long, but we've been friends for what, a year and a half, two years now?”

Friends, Liam thinks, is probably a generous term for what they've been to each other since they both got caught in Louis' orbit, but it's not the biggest lie they're going to try to sell tonight. Liam says nothing, wishing for once that his hair was as long as Harry's, so he could have something to hide behind, even for a moment.

There's nothing though, nothing to save him from Harry's gaze as he locks onto Liam, jaw set with determination. Their food hasn't even arrived, but whatever small appetite Liam had is long gone. “The thing about me and Liam,” Harry says, and he's looking at Liam when he says it, “is that we don't do things by halves. We're both all in, you know?”

Gemma snorts out a laugh. “No, we don't. What are you talking about, Haz?”

Harry's mouth twitches. “I mean, when you know someone's the one, you don't hold back.”

Liam might actually die before Harry winds his way to the point. He wants to just shout it out, quick like ripping off a bandaid, but once it's out there, there's no going back. However Harry's family reacts, Liam's stuck here the rest of the week, living with it.

Opening her mouth like she's got another retort, Gemma's silenced before she can say anything when Anne gently lays her hand on Gemma's wrist. Her eyes flick back and forth between Harry and Liam. “When you say that you know someone's the one...” she starts, and it sounds like she's choosing her words with care, her tone completely neutral.

“I know we're young,” Harry says. His fingers tap out an uneven rhythm against the table. “And maybe it was stupid, rushing into things. But there's no going back now.”

“Harry.” Anne's voice is sharper now, not even a hint of softness in her face.

Harry doesn't flinch. “We're married, mum.”

The silence is thick enough to slice with a knife, to serve up on a platter, if Liam's appetite hadn't completely shriveled up. Then Gemma bursts into laughter, shattering it. “You're not serious. Haz, that's an awful joke, even for you.”

“I'm not joking,” Harry says.

This time, it's Liam who reaches out, placing his hand on top of Harry's on the table, stilling his restless fingers. Harry twists his wrist, flipping his palm up, his right hand in Liam's left, and this would be a good time, Liam thinks, to have the ring that's shoved into the bottom of his carry on bag back on the chain around his neck.

Harry's two steps ahead of him, though. With his free hand, he grabs for his necklace, pulling it out from where it's tucked under the collar of his shirt. The thin silver band that matches Liam's dangles from the chain, and the way the air punches out of Gemma's chest is audible.

“That's not a wedding ring,” she says.

“I promise you, it is,” Harry tells her. His fingers are tight against Liam's.

Liam abruptly pushes his chair back from the table. “Excuse me,” he says to the floor. “I just – I need some fresh air, I think.”

Harry's fingers slip through his, and then Liam's stumbling blindly through restaurant in the general direction of the exit. He pushes past the small group of people still waiting for tables, and a hostess with a polite, if confused smile, until he's out the door, sharp winter air like needles against his heated skin. Liam gulps it in, ignoring the sting of pain on the back of this throat.

It only takes a few moments for Harry to join him, sinking onto the curb next to Liam. The freezing pavement beneath him cuts easily through his jeans, and Liam leans into Harry's warmth, eyes closed.

“Sorry,” he says. “I didn't mean to just, like, abandon you like that. I just. I couldn't – they looked so _disappointed_ , Harry.”

Slinging an arm over Liam's shoulders, Harry tugs him in close, mouth pressed to Liam's temple. “Shush. They're not disappointed. Just surprised, I think. I told you, they're trying to figure out how I landed a boy like you.”

Liam chokes out a hoarse laugh. “Stop. I'm pretty sure they hate me.”

“What? No, Liam. What gives you that idea?” Harry sounds honestly concerned, his hand rubbing up and down Liam's arm. His coat is still inside, and Liam really is being ridiculous, sitting out here shivering. He lets Harry hold him all the same. “I swear, they love you already.”

“Harry--”

Brushing his cold nose along Liam's temple, Harry says, “Give them a bit to process, all right? Pretty sure my mum had the same dream as yours. She won't hold it against you.” His breath is warm against the side of Liam's face, lips nearly touching Liam's cheek as he adds, “I'm sorry, for putting you through this twice. Believe me, I get how you're feeling right now.”

“You didn't run out though, when we were talking to my parents,” Liam points out. His teeth are starting to chatter.

“No,” Harry agrees. “But I did a pretty bang-up job of hiding my face in your neck so I wouldn't have to meet your mum's eyes.”

Liam has to concede the point. It's emotionally exhausting no matter which way you slice it, and Liam is tapped out.

“It's freezing out here,” he finally says. “Let's go back inside.”

He pushes to his feet, pulling Harry up with him. They go in together.

-

The time difference has Liam keyed up, his body exhausted from the travel and the tension, but his mind wide awake, thoughts racing. He brushes his teeth with single-minded determination, focusing on the task at hand. Splashing cold water on his face, Liam spends a long time staring at his reflection; the bruised purple skin beneath his eyes, the stubble coating his jaw he couldn't be bothered to shave. He looks as tired as he feels.

With weary feet, he trudges down the hall to Harry's room. Harry's still downstairs, talking to his mum or maybe Gemma, reassuring them for the twentieth time tonight that they know what they're doing, maybe they're just kids, but that doesn't mean they've made a mistake.

Harry was right about one thing, at least. They've been nothing but unwaveringly kind to him, even after the big announcement that nearly ruined dinner.

Liam flops onto Harry's bed, and the sheets don't smell like home. They smell like Harry, faded laundry detergent and his shampoo, a scent Liam wouldn't have been able to pick out before this whole charade started. Liam wriggles his way beneath the blanket, pulling it up to his chin, and waits for sleep to find him.

It doesn't, but Harry does. He opens the door quietly, light from the hall spilling across the floor before he slips inside, shutting it gently behind him. Shucking his jeans and shirt, Harry pads almost silently over the floor, footsteps muffled by the thick rug covering the hardwood. He walks around to the far side of the bed, and Liam barely feels the mattress dip as Harry crawls in next to him.

Liam tries to keep his breathing slow and even, but even though his family might think otherwise, Harry isn't an idiot.

“Can't sleep?” he says, soft enough that Liam could keep faking, maybe, and Harry would let him.

Instead, he rolls over, until they're face to face. Harry's bed is big, a queen-sized mattress that takes up most of the room. It's big enough for all their baggage to squeeze in too, with space left over to leave a Louis-sized gap between them.

But even that feels like it's shifted, like now it's Harry and Liam, two against the world. They have each other, and this charade, and it's somehow too much and not enough, all at once.

Harry's hand slides across the sheets, reaching out until his fingertips find Liam's face, cupping his cheek. He brushes his thumb over Liam's skin, catching the corner of his mouth. Liam's eyes close.

The mattress dips again as Harry shifts closer, and Liam isn't surprised at the tentative brush of Harry's mouth against his, the touch so soft it's more the impression of a kiss than anything. Harry pulls back, his head still resting on the same pillow as Liam's. It's a big bed, but Harry's ankle is slotted between Liam's, their wrists touching, one of Harry's curls tickling Liam's cheek.

It's somehow too much and not enough, all at once.

-

Liam makes it through the rest of the week without having a breakdown or letting the truth slip, so really, the trip is a modest success. He's also careful to turn onto his side every night when he crawls into bed, his back towards Harry and the blankets pulled up to his chin. It doesn't keep Harry's arm from sliding over his waist, Harry curling in close behind him, but that's manageable, at least.

The day before he and Harry are due to fly back to New York, they go shopping with Gemma, because she insists they need to take advantage of the post-holiday sales. It's fun, traipsing down busy London streets and ducking into the little boutique shops Harry and Gemma seem to know like the backs of their hands. Whenever Liam would come to England as a kid, they would spend most of the summer with his mum's family in the countryside, though there was one memorable year Liam's parents took him to see Big Ben, and it was all he could talk about for a week.

Under different circumstances, it'd be the trip of Liam's life, and he lets himself pretend, just for an afternoon, that he could have all this for real.

“Hey, babe,” he says, pulling a shirt from the rack he definitely can't afford, but kind of wants to buy anyway. “What do you – oh, sorry. I thought you were Harry.”

Gemma just smiles as she steps around the edge of the clothing rack, tucking her hair behind one ear. “Think we've lost him to the shoe store next door. He saw a sequined boot and that was it. I'm sure he'll surface eventually.”

“I don't know,” Liam says, hanging the shirt back on the rack. “He really does love ridiculous footwear.”

It's jarring, how much of Harry's smile Gemma wears on her face. “Listen,” she says. “I just wanted to say, before Harry finds his way back, that I'm sorry, if I've been – well, Harry's my little brother, you know? It's my job, as a big sister, to poke a little fun. I don't want you to think it's because I don't approve of you, or anything like that.”

“Oh,” Liam says. He licks his lips, but can't think of anything else to say.

Gemma reaches out, squeezing Liam's arm. “It's obvious he's crazy about you, and anyone who makes him feel like that is all right by me, okay?”

It's too hard to hold Gemma's gaze, and Liam studies his own boots, a practical brown leather. “I just want him to be happy,” he says honestly.

With a snort, Gemma says, “Small dogs and stupid sunglasses make him happy, that's not hard. You settle something in him, Liam. That's not nothing.”

Swallowing thickly, Liam fumbles for a reply. Gemma's got no baseline, is the thing, to be throwing around comments like that. She's never seen Harry around Louis. Doesn't know that Liam and Harry have become each other's lifelines out of necessity; that it will all end the second it's safe for them to file for divorce without a jail sentence dangling over their heads.

“Picking on Liam again, I see,” Harry says, pushing his way through the narrow aisle. He drapes an arm over Liam's shoulder in a casual move, but the intent is clear.

“Relax, H. Promise, I haven't been torturing your husband. He puts up with you somehow, so give him some credit.”

“Heyyy,” Harry says, offended, but Gemma's already flouncing off.

-

Anne has to work, so it's Gemma that drives them to the airport. She informs them she's not a chauffeur, ta, so Harry rides in the passenger seat, leaving Liam on his own in the back.

Liam's had enough of airports to last a lifetime, and when they finally clear all the security checks and board the plane (Liam gets the window seat, because Harry really is the best), Liam has big plans to sleep the whole flight.

Settling into the seat next to him, Harry hooks his chin over Liam's shoulder, watching the activity on the tarmac with interest.

“I think that went well,” he says, face so close that Liam can feel the movement of his jaw with each word. Liam clenches and unclenches his fingers.

“Our stories will definitely match at the next interview,” he agrees, staring out the tiny window, and Harry stiffens, just a bit.

“Right,” he says slowly. “The interview.”

“I mean.” Liam shifts in his seat, squirming to get comfortable. “That was the whole point of this, right?”

Clearing his throat, Harry pulls back, settling into his own seat, the armrest a barrier between them now that Harry hasn't draped himself over it. “Yeah,” he says. “'Course.”

Liam's not surprised when Harry falls asleep twenty minutes into the flight. He doesn't use Liam's shoulder as a pillow for once, and Liam tells himself that it's fine, his arm would have been pins and needles anyway.

He's getting really good at lying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you'll notice i never actually said what liam got harry for christmas. i'm leaving it up to the reader's imagination :)
> 
> as always, comments/feedback is hugely appreciated!! you can also come say hi on [tumblr](http://www.moondoggiestyle.tumblr.com/)!!


	6. in which things get complicated

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, huge thank you to onewasturning and scottinski for the lighting quick beta work!! you two are amazing <33
> 
> no additional warnings for this chapter, but that will change with chapter seven :)

When they touch down in New York, Liam heads straight back to his flat and crashes, barely kicking off his shoes before he's out, face down in bed. He sleeps for fourteen hours straight, and when he wakes up, dry-mouthed and groggy, he barely feels rested at all.

Rolling over in bed, Liam reaches for his phone, and then curses when he has to fumble for the charger to plug it in, because of course he forgot to charge it last night. Once it blinks back to life, Liam waits with impatience for the notifications to pop up, but after a few moments, only a few texts ping through. There are a couple from Niall and Zayn each, and one from his sister. There's nothing at all from Harry.

Liam swings his legs out of bed, padding across the cold floorboards to the kitchen area. He fixes himself a cup of coffee on autopilot, filling the coffee pot with water and dumping in fresh grounds. The creamer in the fridge has gone bad, so he has to settle for dumping in a few (fine, six) disappointing spoonfuls of sugar instead.

Sinking down onto the couch with his coffee in hand, Liam sips at it slowly until the grogginess starts to clear. It's only then that he pulls out his phone again, reading through his messages. It's the ones that aren't there that bother him. Setting his empty mug down on the table next to the couch, Liam opens his contact list, scrolling slowly through the names. When he reaches the one he's looking for, he hesitates, thumb hovering over the call button. He nearly talks himself out of calling before he gathers up the shreds of his courage and presses it.

It rings, two, three, four times before someone picks up.

“'lo?”

“Louis,” Liam says. He honestly wasn't sure if Louis would pick up the phone when he saw Liam's name light up his screen. He doesn't waste time with small talk. “You up for some FIFA?”

There's a pause, followed by muffled noises, like maybe Louis' switching the phone from one ear to the other. “Yeah,” he finally says, voice cracking with a yawn. “Gimme like twenty minutes to shower? We're out of food, but you could bring some takeout. Been craving Chinese.”

It's a small price to pay for Louis' forgiveness. “You got it,” Liam says, a weight lifted from his shoulders he didn't realize he'd been carrying.

At least one thing in his life is starting to go right.

-

Liam picks up an extra order of orange chicken and side of rice in case Harry's home too, and the rush of relief that hits him when he sees that Louis' the only one in the messy living room is quickly chased by guilt. It's not Harry's fault that Liam can't keep his head on straight, that he keeps forgetting all of Harry's touches are just pretend.

Piling the food onto the coffee table, Liam accepts the beer Louis hands him gratefully, even though it's barely 2 in the afternoon. 'It's the last winter break we'll be able to day drink,' Louis would probably tell him, if Liam hadn't spent his senior year fucking everything up. Instead, Louis just taps the rim of his bottle against Liam's, the gulf between them bridged, at least for a moment.

“I want you to know,” Louis says as he settles back on the couch, knocking back a healthy swallow of beer, “that I have been bored out of my fucking mind. Niall and Zayn are still upstate, and with you and Harry fucking off to England for a full week – it's been proper dull around here, bro.”

And Liam knew that Louis wasn't flying home for Christmas, that a plane ticket for an international flight was way outside his student-living-off-Ramen-noodles budget, but he hadn't realized Louis was here all alone. It explains why he was so quick to accept Liam's offer, at any rate.

“Well, I'm here now,” Liam says. Setting his beer down – on a coaster, no doubt courtesy of Harry, whose bedroom door is firmly closed – he reaches for a carton of rice, opening it with a cloud of steam. “And I'm going to kick your ass in FIFA.”

“Big words, Payno,” Louis says. Grabbing a chopstick, he stabs it through a piece of orange chicken. “Gonna be embarrassing for you when I win.” He pops the chicken into his mouth, grinning toothily.

Liam keeps one eye on the screen and the other on Harry's door, which unsurprisingly gives Louis an edge. After he's scored three goals to Liam's nil, he pauses the game, eyes following Liam's gaze.

“What's up with you two, anyway? Harry barely said anything at all when he got in last night, left this morning before I got up.” Louis cocks an eyebrow. “Don't tell me there's trouble in paradise already.”

Liam shoves a mouthful of rice past his lips, chewing slowly. It buys him enough time that his voice is perfectly neutral when he says, “Harry didn't say anything to you?”

Louis shoots him a look, eyes shrewd beneath a furrowed brow. “I was joking. Are you guys really fighting?”

Shaking his head, Liam washes down the rice with another swig of beer. He unpauses the game, taking advantage of Louis' inattention to make a drive for a goal as Louis squawks in outrage.

-

Liam and Louis drink well into the afternoon, finishing off the six-pack in the fridge, then trade Louis' ratty couch for the bar down the street. The more time they spend together – or maybe the more beer Louis drinks – the softer his edges get, until he and Liam nearly fit together again, almost like the past few months haven't happened at all.

By the time they stumble home, just after last call, Liam is buzzing pleasantly. January in New York is unforgiving, but he barely even feels the cold during the short walk back to Louis'. Once he's deposited himself on the couch, tipped over the arm with his feet dangling over the edge, the idea of standing up again is daunting, let alone making the trek back to his own apartment.

Laughing, it takes Louis three tries to pry Liam's shoes off.

“I need to – my shoes, Lou,” Liam protests. He meant for it to be a complete sentence, but it got stuck somewhere between his brain and his mouth.

“Shh. Bedtime,” Louis insists, tossing Liam's shoes over his shoulder. They each hit the floor with a muted thunk, which sets both of them off giggling again. It's possible, Liam thinks, that he drank more than he meant to.

He ends up curled on his side, a spare blanket pulled up to his chin as Louis stumbles off to bed.

Harry's door is still closed.

-

The next morning finds Liam at Harry and Louis' rickety kitchen table, sipping at ice water while he waits for the painkillers he stole from the medicine cabinet to kick in and fix his pounding head. Louis' still out, snoring audibly through the door, and Liam's trying to find the energy to tie his shoes for the walk home before Harry catches him.

He's not fast enough.

Harry slips into the kitchen in socked feet, the sleeves of his sweater hanging past his wrists. He heads straight to the electric kettle on the counter, filling it with water, and it's not until Liam clears his throat that Harry looks over, blinking in surprise.

“Oh,” he says. He forgets to turn the faucet off, and water fills over the rim, splashing onto his fingers. Hastily, he shuts it off. “Um. Tea?”

Liam nods, and has the weirdest sense of _déjà vu_ as Harry dumps in three spoonfuls of sugar, stirring it in before sliding the steaming mug over to Liam.

“Thanks,” Liam says, blowing on it before taking a sip. It's a bit too hot yet, but Liam drinks it anyway, feeling the burn the whole way down.

Harry doesn't lean back against the counter like Liam expects him to, but sinks into the chair across from him, holding his own tea in both cupped hands.

“So,” Liam says after the silence has dragged on. Harry glances up, meeting Liam's eye, and Liam still hasn't got a clue what he's thinking.

“We should probably talk,” Harry says. He brings his cup to his lips, throat working as he swallows. Liam drops his gaze. “About, like, the moving plan, or whatever.”

It's the hangover that has Liam's stomach lurching, Liam tells himself. He almost believes it. “I posted the ad before the holiday, like you said. To sublet my place.”

Harry nods. His hair is pulled back into a messy bun, but a few tendrils have escaped, curling loosely around his face. A few days ago, Liam would have brushed them away without thinking. Now, there's no audience to play to, and Liam doesn't know his role anymore. He keeps his fingers wrapped around his mug as Harry asks, “Gotten any response yet?”

And, well, Liam's been busy, hasn't he? No time to check his email. He takes another sip of tea, swallowing it down before he says, “Um. Should probably, like, follow up on that.”

With one hand, Harry reaches up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind his ear. “Could you check soon? I want to give Louis as much warning as possible before you move in.”

Liam recognizes all of the words Harry's just said; could find each one in the dictionary. It's the order of them that makes no sense, all put in the same sentence like that. “Before I move in?”

Harry looks at him from beneath a wrinkled brow. “We agreed it made more sense to sublet your place, since you're in a studio. Where did you think you'd be moving?”

“I thought--” that they'd get a new place, with two bedrooms. One bedroom plus a den. Buy a second-hand pull-out couch off Craigslist for the living room. “Harry, I can't live _here_. Where am I going to sleep? Where's my stuff going to go?”

The way Harry's staring at him would be insulting, if Liam weren't still scrambling to catch up. “In my room, Liam. Well,” he amends, “it'll be our room, technically.”

Liam stares at him, mouth open. “You've got to be kidding.”

Shoulders slumping, Harry props his head up with one hand, elbow resting on the table. “What do you want me to say, Liam? I get that it's not ideal, I do. But it's just for a semester. Have you got any better options?”

He doesn't, not really. Of course it makes the most sense; it's the most practical option. The most realistic one, if all of this were real. Except – “What about Louis? What if he doesn't agree to this?”

“He'd be an idiot not to. Splitting the rent three ways is fiscally responsible.” Liam nearly snorts at that, and Harry's eyes narrow. “You and Louis have been best friends since you guys met, haven't you? He told me he practically lived in your dorm freshman year. He can handle it for a semester.”

It's selfish, but Louis' not really the one Liam's worried about.

He sighs. “I'll check my email as soon as I get home, okay?”

-

Liam's actual priority when he gets home is taking a nap to chase away the last of his headache. Then it turns out that it's critical that he wash a load of laundry because he's out of clean underwear, and then scrub out the fridge, which has begun to smell with moldy food he didn't think to throw out before he left. By the time he cleans the bathroom, folds and puts away all of his clothes, organizes his DVDs by title, and solves a few Sudoku puzzles from a dog-eared booklet he found shoved behind the book case, he runs out of things to do that aren't checking his email.

When he finally clicks on his inbox with reluctance, and spends another few minutes deleting the junk mail, he's got seven replies to his post from people interested in subletting his place.

Liam closes his laptop lid, resting his folded arms on the table and burying his face in the crook of his elbow.

-

Harry's persistent, which means Liam can't procrastinate on replying as long as he'd like to (which, to be fair, would be never). It turns out it's easy, subletting his place, when Harry does all the work for him. Within a week of their return to the States, Liam's got a signed sublease and a move-out date, all before the start of the second semester.

It's breaking the news to Louis that's the real challenge.

They decide on a neutral venue: a sandwich shop just around the corner from Harry and Louis' place. Sitting in the booth next to Harry, Liam picks at his sub, pulling off a bit of lettuce.

“What's the big, important announcement, then?” Louis says, sliding into the seat across from them. He hasn't unwrapped his sandwich yet, but does take a slurping gulp of his coke, eyebrows raised so high they're hidden beneath his floppy hair.

“Well,” Harry hedges, shooting Liam a look, lip caught between his teeth. For once, Harry doesn't hold his hand, and Liam's not sure if it's because they've been out of sync since the plane ride home, or because it's bound to set Louis off even more once they drop the news. “Liam and I, um, we've been discussing it for awhile now, and – well, not, like, _that_ long, because we – I guess it's more of a recent development, actually, but we've put a lot of thought into it, and, um--”

“Spit it out, Harold, before we start collecting social security.”

If Harry were the type to blush, Liam's nearly certain his cheeks would be flaming. “Right. Things with me and Liam are, um, pretty serious, so. We want – well, Liam's the one who--”

“I'm moving in with you and Harry,” Liam interrupts.

During Harry's rambling, Louis managed to unwrap one end of his sandwich, raising it halfway to his mouth. Now he freezes, his expression still as he slowly lowers his sub back to the table.

“You're moving in together?” he asks flatly, gaze flicking back and forth between Harry and Liam.

“Yep,” Harry says. His bottom lip is bitten raw.

Louis just stares for a long moment before he finally manages to collect himself. “Harry, can I talk to you for a quick sec?”

Firmly, Harry says, “Anything you have to say to me you can say in front of Liam.”

“Okay. You're a fucking idiot. You don't think this is moving a little fast?”

The chain of Harry's necklace is just visible, curving around the column of his throat before disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt. Liam wonders if he's going to pull out his party trick again, if Louis will buy their story even with a ring as proof.

Harry doesn't reach for his necklace, though. He worries with the rings on his other fingers, twisting them round and round. “I think--” he starts to say, but Louis' quick to cut him off.

“And when exactly were you planning on consulting me? You didn't think I'd want a say in who lives in our fucking flat?”

“It's _Liam_ ,” Harry stresses. “We didn't – _I_ didn't think you'd object.”

Louis is shaking his head. “No, see, this is exactly the kind of shit – whatever. You and Liam can date who you like. But don't act like it doesn't change anything, when it's obvious where your priorities are now.”

A muscle in Harry's jaw jumps. “This _doesn't_ change anything, Louis.”

“If you--” Liam clears his throat when two sets of eyes swing around to look at him. Voice small, he says, “If it bothers you that much, I don't want – I can – I mean, it's already signed, I can't undo my sublease, but I could – I could try to find another place, or, or maybe stay on Zayn's couch, just for a bit--”

“Don't be fucking stupid,” Louis snaps. “You're not going to stay on Zayn's couch, for Christ's sake. Of course you can move in. That's not why I'm mad.”

Liam pauses. “Why are you mad, then?”

Pushing to his feet, Louis just mutters, “Didn't I just-- nevermind.” Leaving his sandwich behind, he heads for the door, pulling on his coat as he shoves it open. Neither Harry nor Liam follow after him, and Harry's shoulders slump as the door shuts behind him.

“That could have gone better,” Liam says after a beat.

Harry sags forward, hiding his face in his hands.

-

Louis doesn't respond to any of Liam's texts or voicemails as Liam's moving date looms closer,but Harry swears up and down it's fine.

“He'll come around, Liam. If he were a normal person he'd be over it already, but he's got to hold a grudge about it first.” He carefully folds one of Liam's sweaters, setting it gently into the box labeled 'clothes.'

“I don't like it,” Liam says, shoving an armful of t-shirts into another box. It's labeled 'kitchen' in Harry's neat printing. “What if he doesn't get over it? What if he moves out?”

“We'll still be married, and you won't be in jail.” At the look on Liam's face, Harry sighs. “Give Lou some credit. He's upset, but he's not gonna throw away years of friendship over this. Trust me.”

And maybe that's the problem. Liam does trust Harry, except for when it really counts.

He doesn't have time to reply before there's a knock on the door, and then it bursts open.

“Moving party!” Niall bellows at the top of his lungs. Zayn shuffles in on Niall's heels, looking significantly less enthusiastic.

“I'm just here to supervise,” he says, and immediately makes himself comfortable on the couch, kicking up his booted feet. It turns out that by supervise, he really means text nonstop, only looking up on occasion to tell Niall that he's carrying the box wrong. “Lift with your knees, bro. Your _knees_.”

“I'm gonna lift my knee up your ass,” Niall says cheerfully.

They manage to get the boxes piled up near the door, all of Liam's worldly belongings packed away, and Zayn's about to “help” Niall pick up the U-Haul Liam's shelling out to rent by the hour when someone eases the door open, stepping inside.

Niall's the first to react, pushing to his feet. “Tommo! 'Bout time you showed up, mate. Was gonna throw my back out, carrying all these heavy boxes myself.”

An offended scoff crosses Harry's face. “I am literally carrying two boxes right now.”

Louis sniffs, arms across his chest. “I'll help. But for the record, I still think this is a stupid idea,” he says. “And I'm not carrying any heavy boxes.”

When Liam hugs him, squeezing hard, Louis hugs back like he means it. Harry slips out the door, carrying his boxes down the hall towards the stairs.

-

A near fender bender, way too many trips up the three flights of stairs to Harry and Louis' apartment, and a tension-laced conversation about the integrity of couch fabrics later, Liam's moved in. He leaves his mattress, kitchen table, and couch behind in his old place, even though Louis' couch definitely smells more like animal than Liam's, and maybe it's the boxes piled up, but it feels too small, the space the three of them are going to occupy the rest of the semester.

Louis takes a look at all the boxes, hands on his hips, and says, “Well. Think I'll head out. Anyone fancy a drink?”

“Fuck, yes,” Niall says, and Zayn gives Liam his best puppy eyes.

“Oh, go on,” Liam says. “You lot have helped enough. I'll be all right, unpacking on my own.”

He's startled when Harry slips an arm over his shoulders, but recovers quickly enough. “I'll stay back and help,” Harry volunteers. “We'll have to figure out how to sort everything, anyway.”

Harry's arm is heavy as an anchor, or maybe a stockade, as the rest of the boys make their escape.

-

Unpacking is a bit of a surreal experience.

Liam's never so much as had a drawer at someone's place, let alone squeezed all of his clothes into their closet. It's strangely intimate, having his shirts hanging next to Harry's, their shoes lined up all in a row.

“It's just for a semester,” Harry says, like he can read Liam's mind as they break down the last of the boxes to be recycled. Then he adds, “You want to meet up with the boys?”

“Please,” Liam says.

The problem presents itself when they stumble home hours later, not quite drunk, but not quite sober, either. Liam tips himself onto the couch, toeing off his shoes, and the realization that he no longer has a place of his own to call home hits him like a punch to the gut. He squirms onto his belly, face pressed to the cushion.

That's when Louis opens his big mouth. “What are you doin', Payno? Shouldn't you be bunking with Harold?”

Liam freezes, his face still half-buried in the couch. Despite his tipsiness, the lingering scent of fur is strong in his nose, but he doesn't want to get to his feet.

A hand wraps around his bicep, and then Harry's gently tugging Liam up.

“C'mon, love. Let's go to bed.”

Liam lets himself be pulled to his feet, Louis' gaze heavy on his back. It's a little easier at least, knowing that Liam has an audience right now, a script to follow.

What's impossible is that he has to keep this act up for another five months.

When they reach the bedroom, Harry closes the door behind them. Liam sinks down heavily on the edge of the mattress, elbows propped on his knees as he rests his head in his hands. Harry sits down next to him, and after a moment, his hand comes to rest tentatively between Liam's shoulder blades.

“You all right?” he asks, voice low.

“I don't know,” Liam answers truthfully.

There's a moment of silence, and Harry's hand starts to move, tracing small, slow circles over Liam's back. It's all Liam can do to keep from leaning in to the touch.

Voice that same careful, quiet tone, Harry says, “You want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“Liam.”

“I just--” Liam cuts himself off, sighing noisily. “The past couple of weeks have been kind of a whirlwind, all right? I need a second to get my head on straight. I need--” Space. He swallows his words, his tongue, his regret.

“I'll be okay,” he tells Harry.

What's one more lie, in the end.

-

It shouldn't be surprising that sleeping next to Harry on American soil is exactly the same as sleeping next to him on English soil. He can't stick to his side of the bed, always ending up in Liam's space, his arm anchored around Liam's waist, breath tickling the back of Liam's neck.

It was tolerable for a week, when Liam's only goal was to convince everyone around them that they were happily wed. But with the start of the semester, Liam has to balance class and his course work with a part-time internship as well, and it gets harder and harder to play pretend.

He stumbles home late one night, eyes gritty from a long night in the library finishing off a paper. The flat is silent, not even the sound of whatever Louis' currently binging on Netflix echoing faintly through his closed bedroom door. That at least isn't unusual; Louis' done a fine job of making himself scarce most nights since the move.

Toeing off his boots, Liam dumps his backpack next to the pile of stuff near the door. It still feels surreal, calling Harry and Louis' place home, especially when he slowly turns the knob of Harry's closed door, padding inside on socked feet.

Harry's a shapeless lump beneath the blanket, only the top of his curly head poking out, which is why Liam strips off there instead of in the bathroom. He pulls on a pair of sweatpants and a worn t-shirt before lifting the corner of the blanket and climbing into bed, taking up his customary sliver of mattress on the edge closest to the door.

His head has barely hit the pillow before Harry's making a sleepy little noise and rolling over, fingers finding Liam's back beneath the blanket, trailing over his hip. They catch on the hem of Liam's shirt, and his warm palm slides over Liam's belly. Liam clenches his abs, sucking in a sharp breath through his teeth.

“'S'late,” Harry slurs. He doesn't sound fully awake.

“Shh,” Liam tells him. “Go back to sleep.”

“Mm,” is all Harry says in reply. His lips touch the back of Liam's neck and linger a moment, soft against Liam's skin before he pulls away, still close enough that Liam can feel each breath he takes.

He waits until Harry's breathing is slow and steady before he carefully climbs out of bed, slipping free of Harry's hold and tip toeing as quietly as possible to the living room, where he passes out on the couch.

-

Pressure on his knees pulls him from sleep, and Liam blinks awake to a very chipper Louis sitting on his legs, watching Liam over the rim of his coffee mug as bright morning sunlight filters through the cracked blinds.

Liam grunts.

“This isn't your bed,” Louis says. He sounds very awake for – Liam squints at his watch. Early. It's too early.

“No,” he agrees, trying to sit up. Louis doesn't budge from his legs, so Liam ends up propped up on his elbows before he decides that's too much effort, and collapses onto his back again. He stares up at the ceiling, wondering if the water stains have been there this whole time. They should let the landlord know, maybe. It looks hazardous.

“Why are you sleeping on the couch, Liam?” There's something in Louis' tone that makes Liam pay attention, an undercurrent of suspicion, or maybe an ' _I told you so_ ' just waiting for an opportunity.

“Um,” Liam says.

“Have I been snoring again?”

They're both startled at Harry's sudden appearance, looking sleep-rumpled in the bedroom doorway. He yawns, hiding it with the back of his wrist. “Sorry, babe. You know I can't help it.”

“And that's my cue to leave.” Louis hops to his feet, setting his cup down on the already cluttered table. He heads for the door, snagging his backpack and coat along the way. Liam doesn't remember seeing either last night, which means Louis must have just stopped by this morning to shower and change clothes.

When he leaves, he slams the door behind him, but Liam doesn't think he's actually mad.

“That's twice now Louis' caught you on the couch,” Harry says. He's tried to scrape his hair back into a bun, but the result looks more like a wind-blown bird's nest than anything someone would do intentionally to their head. Liam wonders if he could braid it, if Harry would ever sit still long enough to let him.

He wants to pull the thought out of his head with a pair of tweezers the second he thinks it, rip it out at the roots and bury it somewhere deep where he can never find it again.

“I'm trying my best,” Liam says, and doesn't even know if he's lying anymore.

Harry nods. “Okay.” He doesn't say anything else, just disappears into the bathroom, water gurgling in the pipes as he turns on the shower.

Rolling over, Liam buries his face in the couch cushion. He's grown so used to the smell, he can barely catch the stench of old fur at all.

-

Throwing himself into school gives Liam an excuse to spend as little time as possible in the flat, which is a handy way of avoiding most of his problems. It's also exhausting, especially as February drags on with its endless dreary days. When one of his classes gets canceled, his professor emailing to say she's out sick, Liam makes the obvious choice to take a nap in a Harry-free bed with the unexpected free time on his hands.

He drops off straight away, starfished out in the middle of the mattress. Harry never falls behind on his laundry, so the sheets smell like lavender, and Liam could stay right here forever, maybe. His alarm has a different idea and rips him from sleep after only an hour and a half, and Liam sits up with a lurch.

“Oh,” Harry says. He's bare-chested, standing near the foot of the bed where his dresser sits. When Liam just stares at him, he adds, “Sorry, I thought you were asleep.” Reaching into one of the drawers, he pulls out a clean shirt, tugging it over his head.

Liam finally remembers to drop his gaze. “I mean, I was. Technically.”

“Right.” Harry grabs a sweater from his closet, pulling that on over his t-shirt. “I was just out for a run,” he says, which explains why his hair is shower damp, and why he's changing his clothes in the middle of the afternoon. When Liam fails to reply, Harry adds, “You aren't usually home this time of day.”

“No, no, I – class was canceled, so I took a nap.”

Harry nods, and Liam hates it, suddenly and fiercely, how he's driven everyone away. His truce with Louis is a ticking time bomb until the next time he and Harry have to lie to him again for the sake of this charade, or god forbid Louis finds out the truth, that they've been lying to him the whole time. At least over break, Liam felt like he and Harry had figured out how to be allies, to offer each other literal shoulders to lean on.

But Liam's never been any good at doing things halfway. He wants to touch Harry and know that it's real, that it means something more than a moment of comfort. Liam's not stupid enough to go and fall in love with him, not like this, but he doesn't like the way he has to check himself every time Harry's fingers on his skin makes his pulse kick up, just a little.

Liam's living with his best friend and his husband, and he's never felt more alone.

“Do you--” Liam hesitates, scrubbing a hand over his face. “You, me, and Louis, we should all get lunch sometime. I feel like we haven't hung out in ages.”

“Cos you two are never around,” Harry says, but he's smiling, at least. “If you can pull Louis away from his girlfriend for two seconds, I think that's a really good idea.”

It takes Liam a second. “His – sorry, his what?”

Harry cocks his head. “His girlfriend? Did you not – Liam. Where do you think he's been spending all of his time?”

“I don't – clearly not in the library where I've been!” Harry's words are a rug that's been ripped out from under Liam's feet, leaving him stumbling for balance. “How long has he had a girlfriend?”

“I think only a few weeks, but strangely enough, he's been pretty stingy on the details. Giving us a taste of our own medicine, I expect.” He takes a step closer, lip caught between his teeth. “Liam, did you really not know?”

“I had no idea, I thought--” _that_ _he was in love with you_. “I don't get it. If he had a girlfriend this whole time, why was he so pissed about us? I thought he was, like, jealous or something.”

Harry sits down on the edge of the mattress, his hand landing on Liam's ankle, only the blanket separating their skin. “He _was_ jealous. Probably still is. We're his best friends, and from his perspective, it looks like neither of us mentioned that we fancied each other before we were all of the sudden dating. Wouldn't it upset you, if me and Lou just announced one day that we were together, and you had no idea it was coming?”

Liam's head is spinning. “No, I – Harry, _no one_ would've been surprised at that announcement.”

Harry actually laughs. “At me and Lou? Liam, c'mon.” The way the smile slowly drops off his face would be funny in any other circumstance. “Me and Louis. _Really?”_

Shifting his legs beneath the blanket, Liam pulls his ankle free from the warm pressure of Harry's hand. “Don't act like that's – Harry, the two of you have been attached at the hip since you met! I thought he was – that you two were – from that first night I met you at the club, you guys were like--” He can't find the words, can't hold Harry's eye, can't believe he's just spilled all of it out loud.

“If you thought me and Louis were – whatever it is that you're implying – then why did you offer to marry me?” Harry doesn't sound mad, just bewildered.

“There wasn't anyone else who could,” Liam reminds him, addressing the words to his knees. “And I didn't think it'd turn into – I never thought he'd find out about any of it, that we'd have to fake it like this.”

Harry places his fingers under Liam's chin, tipping his face up with a gentle touch. His eyes on Liam's are intense when he says, “Is that why you were so hesitant about everything? Because you thought you were, what, betraying Lou?”

Miserably, Liam nods. He's caught completely off guard when Harry surges forward, kissing the corner of Liam's mouth. Liam sucks in a sharp breath, pulling back in surprise. It leaves Harry half-crouched over Liam's blanketed legs, one hand still cupping Liam's cheek. His eyes are so bright, and it's not fair, the way he just hands out affection as thanks, when all Liam wants to do is pull him back in and kiss him for real.

“I just,” Liam says, forcing the words out, “I didn't want to hurt anyone. I didn't want to hurt Louis especially, and that's all we've done. I feel like we never should have done this, Harry. You looked so defeated that day, and I – it would have killed Louis, you know? If you had gotten deported. I couldn't let that happen. But now I don't know, if all this has been worth it.”

Harry drops his hand. “Oh,” he says.

“I don't – I don't mean I want to give up, or anything,” Liam adds hastily. “And if you – you're a really good friend, you know? I don't regret all the parts of this that have helped you. I'll see this through to the end, I will. I just. I hate letting anyone down, you know?”

“Well, from where I'm sitting, it's been worth it.” A smile stretches Harry's lips again, but this one doesn't quite reach his eyes. Liam can't figure out why until he says, “Sorry if you don't feel the same way.”

There's no taking back his confession. “Ask me again when this is all over, okay? Maybe I'll have a change of heart.”

Shifting his weight, Harry manages to climb off Liam's lap without brushing against his legs. “Yeah,” he says, picking an invisible piece of lint off his jeans. He doesn't meet Liam's eye. “Maybe.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments/feedback always appreciated. you can also say hi on [tumblr](http://www.moondoggiestyle.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> also, i didn't tag the new louis relationship for spoilery reasons, but it's not going to be featured heavily, so. sorry if that's not your jam!


	7. in which lines are crossed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, massive, massive thank you to onewasturning and scottinski for the lighting quick beta work!! you two are the wind beneath my wings.
> 
> so, a few warnings for this chapter. another brief mention of louis/danielle (sorry that relationship is not actually tagged, but it's minor and spoilerly for earlier chapters, so idk). you'll also notice the rating was bumped from mature to explicit. yay. finally, remember that hurt/comfort tag that's been there since the beginning? that plotline is finally being introduced. i'll put more info about that in the end notes if you want to know before you read.

Liam can't figure Harry out.

They've been off rhythm since the trip home, or maybe since that night in the club when Louis first introduced them. Harry's a beat Liam can't pick up, a song stuck in his head without lyrics.

After Liam's confession, Harry sleeps on his side of the bed, the divide as clear as the empty mattress between them.

The next night, though, he's back to his usual habit of slipping into Liam's space, an arm draped heavily over Liam's waist, one leg slotted between Liam's thighs. In the morning, when Liam's pouring cereal into a bowl, trying to stifle a yawn, Harry brushes against him reaching for a glass from the cupboard, one hand gripping Liam's hip to keep his balance. Even the rare meal Louis is home for doesn't stop Harry from pausing to drop a kiss to Liam's temple as he stands up, taking his dirty dishes to the sink.

Liam decides that Harry must be amping it up with the second interview looming, and escapes to the union to study.

Not that it matters. Harry finds him, curling up in the chair across from Liam's favorite couch. Liam braces himself, but all Harry does is pull out a book, settling in to read. Somehow, that's even worse. Liam can't concentrate, eyes flicking up every time Harry turns a page, his bottom lip caught between his teeth, brow furrowed in concentration.

Their second interview is in less than a week, and Liam can't even be in the same room as Harry without wanting to scream. Slouching further into the cushion, Liam focuses his gaze on his laptop screen. He's meant to be doing research for a paper, but even reading abstracts to find useful articles is beyond his ability right now. He finds himself rereading the same sentence over and over without comprehending a word.

“Your leg is doing the thing again,” Harry says suddenly, and Liam jerks his head up.

“What?”

Tipping his chin at Liam's bouncing knee, Harry says, “The shaking thing. That a nervous tic or something? You do it whenever you're stressed.”

Shifting his laptop out of the way, Liam rubs his palm up and down his thigh before cupping his knee and pressing down to still his leg. “I don't know. Yeah, I guess so.”

Marking his place with a finger, Harry closes his book, leaning forward with a bright-eyed look on his face. Liam eyes him warily. “Please don't offer any more massages.”

That gets a surprised bark of laughter from Harry. “We're in the union, babe. That'd be a bit too much PDA for you, wouldn't it?”

Liam readjusts his laptop, dropping Harry's gaze. “Not really a PDA kind of guy, I guess.”

When Harry doesn't respond, Liam risks looking up again. Harry's finger is still pressed between the pages of his book, and now his furrowed eyebrows are aimed in Liam's direction. “You nervous about the interview?” he asks.

“Are you saying you aren't?”

Pushing to his feet, Harry walks over to the couch, planting himself next to Liam. It's a big couch and it's not like Liam's taking up a lot of it, but Harry still sits close enough that their legs touch, his thigh warm even through the fabric of his jeans.

“Listen,” he says, and the way he pulls on his bottom lip betrays his own nerves. “It'll be better this time around, okay? We met their conditions, and we can tell the truth about how. Maybe we don't know every little thing about each other, but we know a lot more than we did.”

Liam sighs. Harry's jeans are ripped at the knee, and he has to curl his fingers into a fist to keep from reaching for the loose thread and tugging. “Yeah. I'll still sleep a lot better once it's behind us.”

Harry opens his mouth to reply, but before he can get a word out, Zayn walks around the corner, backpack slung over one shoulder. “Ugh,” he groans, dropping down in the chair Harry's just vacated. “You two aren't going to be all touchy-feely and shit, are you? I literally just escaped from Louis and Danielle. I can't take any more.”

Liam kindly doesn't point out the time Zayn was kicked out of union for making out with his then-girlfriend so enthusiastically that a troupe of sophomores started scoring his technique. He got several eights, and a generous nine point five, if Liam remembers correctly.

“We're just studying,” he says, shifting his weight so his thigh isn't touching Harry's.

“Because Liam doesn't believe in PDA,” Harry chips in unhelpfully, leaning into Liam's side.

Zayn starts rummaging through his backpack, pulling out a hacky sack, a carton of cigarettes, several broken pencils, a bruised pear, a neon green water bottle shaped like an alien, and finally a sketchpad. “Hey, whatever you two do behind closed doors is your business.”

“And the U.S. government's,” Liam mutters, not quite loud enough for anyone to hear. Harry's elbow finds its way between Liam's ribs, jabbing hard enough to make him grunt, so it's possible he misjudged.

Zayn gives them a look. “I'm not even going to ask.”

With Zayn in his spot, Harry stays curled up on the couch, wriggling around so his back is against the arm and wedging his socked feet under Liam's thigh. It's apparently not too offensive for Zayn's delicate sensibilities, because he doesn't look up from his sketchpad, but the way Harry won't stop fidgeting is driving Liam a bit mad.

“Harry. Quit wiggling,” he finally says.

“'m not,” Harry protests, going still. A minute later he's back at it, digging his toes further under Liam's leg, jostling his laptop.

“ _Harry_.”

“ _Liam_ ,” Harry says, adopting the same exasperated tone.

Zayn's pencil never stops moving. “Get a room,” he says.

“I'm trying to stud--”

“Good idea. C'mon, Liam, let's go. I'm bored.” The word no is on Liam's lips, but the beseeching look Harry shoots him says that Harry is less bored, and more interested in continuing their earlier conversation.

Liam takes a deep breath. “I really need to finish this.”

Harry's fingers find Liam's thigh, just above his knee, squeezing tight. “ _Please_.”

A stronger man would resist, but Liam crumbles, just like that. “Oh, all right.”

“You're both sickening,” Zayn informs them as Liam packs up his laptop, shoving it into his backpack. There's charcoal smeared across one of his cheeks, and Liam doesn't tell him.

-

When they get home, it's apparent at once that they aren't alone. The door's unlocked, for one. There's also a trail of discarded clothes leading from the front hall to Louis' bedroom door. The most tell-tale sign, though, is the pretty, dark-haired girl sitting on the couch. At least she appears to be fully dressed.

“Hi, Danielle,” Harry says, shrugging off his coat. Liam glances between Harry and – Danielle, he supposes – wondering exactly when Louis found the time to introduce her to Harry.

“Hi, Harry,” she says, smiling brightly. “And you must be Liam?”

Liam waves, feeling stilted and awkward.

Wiggling a few fingers back, Danielle says, “Sorry, we won't be in your hair long. Louis was just changing quick.”

Nudging a crumpled up t-shirt with the toe of his boot, Liam says, “Clearly.”

“Oi,” Louis says, bursting through the bedroom door as he tugs a shirt over his head. “It was your choice to live here. You knew what you were signing up for.” To Danielle, he adds, “Ready, love?”

Liam's not sure what exactly they're supposed to be ready for, as Danielle has on a dress and a full face of makeup, and Louis looks like he rolled out of bed wearing the same wrinkled outfit from last night, but. It's not like Liam's in any place to judge anyone on their life choices.

“Don't wait up,” Louis says, waggling his eyebrows as he heads for the door, grabbing his jacket off one of the hooks. “Doubt I'll be back tonight.”

Danielle swats at him. “You could at least pretend to be a gentleman in front of your friends!”

“That wasn't an innuendo directed at you!” Louis protests. “I meant _them_. Honestly, babe, you know I'd never--”

Liam doesn't get to find out what Louis would never before the door swings shut behind them, but Danielle's laugh is audible through even the closed door, so Louis is probably out of hot water.

“Well,” Liam says to the suddenly silent apartment. “Guess we have the place to ourselves tonight.” He realizes what he's implied a beat too late, but for once in his life, Harry doesn't run with the obvious joke.

“Movie night?” he asks instead, smiling hopefully.

Liam frowns at him. “I thought you wanted to talk about the interview.”

“No, I want you to _relax_ about the interview, but I'll settle for you relaxing in general. C'mon, you can even pick.”

Shaking his head, Liam swings his backpack off his shoulder, setting it down gently by the pile of junk near the door. “I dunno, was thinking I'd just go to bed. It's been a long week.”

“ _Liam_ ,” Harry says, dragging out the syllables in Liam's name. Grabbing Liam's hand, Harry tugs him towards the couch. “C'mon. It'll be fun. You'll probably fall asleep halfway through, anyway. It's win/win.”

Liam lets himself be dragged a reluctant few steps before he digs his heels in. “Sorry, Harry, I'm just. I'm not in the mood, y'know? Maybe another time.” He tries to pull his hand free from Harry's grip, but Harry hangs on. The corner of his mouth pulls up into a smile that spells trouble. Liam doesn't like it at all.

“One movie,” Harry says. “You can even pick a Batman one, if you want.” He steps in close, breath tickling Liam's ear. “I'll make us popcorn,” he whispers.

Wrenching out of Harry's grip, Liam rubs at his ear, fighting a shiver. “Harry, I said no. Back off, okay?”

Harry visibly deflates. “Sorry,” he says, running a hand through his hair to push it back off his forehead. “Sorry,” he repeats. “I've just been – I haven't been able to release any stress with my normal go-to since this whole thing started, you know? Yoga just isn't cutting it anymore. It's making me a bit, like. High-strung.”

Liam clears his throat. “When you say your normal 'go-to',” he starts, then cuts himself off when he realizes he doesn't actually want to ask the question.

Giving him a look, Harry says, “I mean, like. I haven't gotten off with anything other than my hand since, like, September. Haven't been this desperate since I was 13, probably.”

Liam chokes. “Oh my god, Harry. _Really_?”

Harry huffs, offense written in every line of his face. “Excuse me, Liam. Who exactly do you think I've been getting off with?”

And that wasn't exactly what Liam meant, but it's still hard to believe. “I never – I just assumed – this whole time, really? No one?”

Something like disbelief crosses Harry's face. “How shitty of a person do you think I am? You really think I'd cheat on you, especially when we were already under suspicion?”

“No, I--” Liam stammers.

Taking a step forward, pressing into Liam's space, Harry says, “Are you telling me that _you've_ been out pulling on the sly?”

“No! Of course not! But – Harry, you didn't get the fraud letter until, like, the middle of November.”

Harry's jaw snaps shut. “We took a vow, Liam. I know it wasn't--” he drags a hand through his hair again, the movement jerky with barely pent-up anger. “I know it wasn't real to you, or whatever, but it was – I'm not going to disrespect something like that.”

Liam sits down hard on the edge of the couch. “You could've. Before the whole--” he waves a hand around “--investigation. I wouldn't have minded.”

“Yeah,” Harry says. “That's the fucking problem.” He watches Liam a long moment, his chest rising and falling visibly beneath his shirt, his eyes calculating. Liam knows the second Harry makes a decision, because all of the sudden he's moving, climbing onto the couch, his knees bracketing Liam's thighs.

Liam leans back on instinct, and Harry leans in, hands resting on the back of the couch. “You act like you're so indifferent, like this doesn't go both ways,” he says, voice a near growl, “but I see the way you look at me, Liam. I know you want me too.”

“I--” Liam's cut off when Harry ducks down, his mouth catching Liam's. It's not the gentle, barely-there press of lips like under the mistletoe at Liam's mum's. It's a bruising, biting, consuming kiss; their teeth clacking, Harry's tongue in his mouth. Harry shifts his weight, one hand running down Liam's chest to his stomach, then lower. He doesn't stop until he's palming over Liam's dick, heel grinding against the denim. Liam's hips jerk without his permission, nearly bucking Harry off him.

Or maybe he actually does, because a second later Harry's up on his feet, staring down at Liam with a horrified expression on his face, breathing hard.

“Jesus Christ,” he says, the heels of his hands pressed to his forehead, fingers in his hair. “What the fuck am I doing? I'm sorry, Liam, I shouldn't have--”

Liam doesn't wait for the rest of Harry's apology. He pushes off the couch, surging up to his feet. Grabbing Harry by the shirt, Liam backs him up a few steps until he hits the wall hard enough to knock a picture frame askew. Harry's chest hitches, his breath escaping in a sharp gasp.

This time, it's Liam who kisses Harry. His lips are parted, and Liam takes advantage, sucking on Harry's chapped lower lip, chasing his taste. The kiss is tongues slipping past teeth, the wet sound of their mouths connecting, slipping together and apart. It's Liam nipping at Harry's lip, just to hear Harry hiss.

Harry's hands are everywhere, trailing up and down Liam's back, cupping his face, his fingers threading through Liam's belt loops to pull him closer, closer. Liam slots his thigh between Harry's legs, pinning him to the wall, and Harry grinds their hips together, making them both gasp.

Tearing at Liam's shirt until he finds the edge and his fingertips slip under the hem, Harry slides his hands up Liam's back, grasping at the skin he finds there, nails digging in hard enough to leave marks. Liam's nerve endings are on fire. Everything is Harry; his harsh breathing in Liam's ear, the dark smudge of his lashes fanned over his cheeks, the wet slide of his tongue against Liam's.

“Please,” Harry pants. “Liam, I need--”

Nodding, Liam presses one more kiss to Harry's lips (then a second, and a third) before he finally pulls back long enough to drag Harry away from the wall, backing him down the hallway towards the bedroom. They get caught up in the doorway when Harry's elbow catches on the doorframe as he tries to pull Liam's shirt off, and after they wrestle that over Liam's head, followed by Harry's shirt, Liam steers Harry into the bedroom, shoving the door shut behind them.

Liam's flimsy grip on control slips from his grasp as easily as Harry spinning them around, taking a step forward until the backs of Liam's knees hook on the edge of the mattress. He falls backwards – or maybe Harry pushes him – and bounces once, landing on his elbows.

He tries to sit up, but stops short at the sight of Harry standing at the foot of the bed between Liam's spread thighs. Harry's bare-chested, skin already glistening with sweat, his long hair hanging in wild tangles past his shoulders. The chain around his neck catches in the light, his wedding band a perfect silver circle against his sternum.

Harry reaches for the buckle of his belt, and Liam watches his hands as he undoes it with practiced ease, the metal clinking dully, followed by the sound of Harry's zipper lowering. Harry pushes his jeans past his hips, down his long legs, kicking them off when the material gets caught around his ankles. Wearing only a pair of black briefs, he stalks forward, kneeling on the edge of the mattress between Liam's knees.

Liam can't help the stutter in his breath when Harry reaches for the flies of his jeans, dragging down Liam's zipper with agonizing slowness. Hooking his fingers over Liam's waistband, Harry pulls the material down his legs, only fumbling a bit when it catches before Liam hitches his hips up. Harry pulls Liam's jeans off one leg at a time, dropping them on the floor before he settles himself between Liam's knees again, his shoulders pushing Liam's legs apart.

The only sound in the room is their uneven breathing, and the deafening roar of blood in Liam's ears.

Placing his hand on the inside of Liam's knee, Harry slides his fingers slowly up Liam's thigh, stopping just short of the crease where it meets his hips. Liam grabs a fistful of the sheets, fingers curled tight enough that his knuckles turn white.

Harry runs a finger along the waistband of Liam's boxers, his kiss-swollen mouth inches from Liam's dick. The bright lights of the city spill through the broken slats in the blinds, barely enough to illuminate the panes of Harry's face, the thin ring of green circling his pupils. Harry teases one fingertip beneath the elastic band, and Liam's stomach muscles jump.

“Tell me you want this,” Harry says, eyes steady on Liam's.

Liam swallows thickly. His heart is pounding so hard. “I want this.”

Harry doesn't break eye contact as he ducks his head down, lips parted. He mouths over the fabric of Liam's boxers, and when Liam's hips buck up, Harry's quick to press them down, holding Liam in place with both hands. It's not nearly enough, the way the damp fabric drags over Liam's cock, Harry's mouth warm and wet through the thin material.

“Fuck,” Liam breathes, the word coming out choked. “ _Please_ , Harry.”

“Please, what?” Harry asks, a huskiness to his voice that Liam's never heard before.

“Oh, god,” Liam says, letting his head drop back to the pillow. Harry's thumbs trace even circles over his hip bones, just above his waistband. “Please, your mouth, I need...”

“What do you need, Liam?” When Liam just whines, Harry digs his thumbs in, his nails biting. “Look at me, Liam. Tell me what you need.”

Liam lifts his head, and the sight of Harry between his legs, mouth red and slick, makes his stomach clench. “Jesus, your _mouth,_ ” he groans. “I want – I need it. Please, Harry, your mouth on me, god, _please_.”

Finally, Harry tugs on Liam's boxers, dragging them down to the tops of his thighs. The elastic cuts into Liam's skin hard enough to leave a red mark behind, but Harry would have to move to pull them off completely. Liam doesn't want Harry to move. He wants Harry to lower his head another few inches, until he finally gets his mouth around Liam's dick.

Harry has other ideas. Holding steady eye contact, his lips twitch with the ghost of a smile before he licks a stripe up Liam's dick with all the theatrics of a porn star. Liam's so keyed up that he has to bite back a groan, and he nearly shouts when Harry's lips suddenly close around the head of his cock.

Tease that he is, Harry goes slow, breathing sharply through his nose as he drags his lips down Liam's cock, taking him a little further each time his head bobs. When Liam's eyes slip shut, Harry pulls off completely with a wet noise.

“ _Why?_ ” Liam asks, voice strangled.

“Look at me,” Harry reminds him, and his voice is shot already.

Panting heavily, Liam keeps his eyes trained on Harry's, watching as he wraps his lips around Liam's cock again, this time swallowing him down until his mouth meets the fingers he has circled around the base. Harry's rhythm picks up, but he stops every time Liam closes his eyes, waiting for them to open again before he restarts.

Liam might actually die before he comes.

“Please, Harry,” he begs, and his thighs are actually trembling. His fingers still grip the sheets, but with no small effort, he unclenches them, reaching down with one hand to brush his knuckles gently against Harry's cheek. He threads his fingers through Harry's sweat-damp hair, tugging when Harry does something particularly wicked with his tongue. Harry groans audibly, and Liam can _feel_ it.

“Oh, god. Harry, I'm--”

Harry pulls off long enough to rasp, “Want you to. C'mon, babe. Let go.” Then the wet heat of his mouth is back, and Liam pulls his hair again, not-quite on accident. It's the guttural noise Harry makes that pushes Liam over the edge, shoving his fist in his mouth to stifle the moan as he comes.

Choking a little, Harry manages to swallow most of it, wiping his mouth with his fingers before he licks those clean, too. Liam stares at him, open-mouthed, heart beating triple time. He's still trying to catch his breath when Harry crawls up the mattress, hands on Liam's sweat-slick chest, trailing up to cup his face.

The hard line of Harry's dick is pressed to Liam's stomach, hot through his thin briefs as Harry arches over him. Harry rocks his hips a little, even as his mouth finds Liam's, kissing him deeply. Liam can taste himself on Harry's tongue, and heat flushes his face, but he doesn't push Harry away.

When Harry starts to press a little more insistently against Liam in a rough, grinding sort of rhythm, Liam rolls them over. Harry hits the mattress with a surprised _oof_ , blinking up at Liam with his pupils blown wide. Bracing himself on one elbow, Liam reaches down, fingers dipping past the elastic of his waistband to wrap around Harry's length. Harry hisses out a breath at the contact, lungs stuttering when Liam gets a rhythm going, shoving Harry's briefs down for better access. His own boxers are still twisted around his thighs, but Liam's more concerned with the desperate way Harry's fucking his hips up into Liam's hand.

Harry's wedding band is nestled in the hollow of his throat, and Liam leans down, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to his neck. He scrapes his teeth over Harry's skin, and Harry whines, hips jerking. He reaches for Liam's face, palm against his cheek, and pulls him into a kiss, sucking on Liam's tongue.

When Harry spills over Liam's fist, it's with a near silent gasp. He arches up off the bed only to collapse a second later, his breathing labored. Liam brushes tendrils of hair away from his sweaty face, kissing Harry's cheeks, his jaw, even his chin as Harry tries to catch his breath. When Liam slides to the side, one leg still threaded between Harry's, Harry nudges him until Liam rolls onto his back. They manage to shed their underwear, and Harry winds up with his cheek resting against Liam's heartbeat, pressed along Liam's side from his chin to his toes, his arm a heavy weight over Liam's stomach.

“Fuck,” Liam says, once he remembers how words work.

Harry laughs, his voice so wrecked that Liam's dick twitches in interest, like he hasn't just come from the best blow job in his life. “I know.”

The sweat on their skin has barely started to cool before the panic sets in. Harry's breathing has slowed, his hair tickling Liam's chin. His fingers are slotted against Liam's ribs like the spaces between them were carved just for him. His weight on Liam is warm and heavy. Suffocating.

Liam's not sure how exactly his hand landed in Harry's hair, and when he drags his fingers through the soft strands to free it, Harry sighs, nuzzling in closer. It makes Liam's stomach flip, nausea clawing at his throat. He shouldn't have done this. Harry's kind, and he's affectionate, and he was so desperate to get off without breaking their vows he settled for Liam, because Liam was selfish enough to say yes.

Their interview is in less than a week, and Liam's fucked everything up. The laugh that bubbles out of his throat sounds as awful as he feels.

Harry lifts his head, brow creased with concern and lips bitten red. Liam can't look at him.

“You okay, babe?”

Shaking his head, Liam rubs a hand over his face. His palm is still damp with sweat, still smells like Harry. He shudders, trying to catch his breath. “I can't – oh god. Do you think--” Another laugh catches him, but it's better than the sob that's taken root in his chest, fighting to get out. “If they ask about our sex life, we'll be prepared now, won't we?”

“What are you...” Harry trails off, realization slowly dawning across his face. “Are you honestly concerned with the interview right now?”

“No. No, no, no, no. I just.” Liam struggles to sit up, dislodging Harry in the process, who rolls onto his side, head propped up with one hand. He tucks his hair behind his ear, and it's ridiculous, because it's a mess from Liam's fingers.

Liam wants Harry so bad it hurts, but playing pretend might actually shatter him. “What if we – don't get me wrong, that was – but I know – after the interview, maybe, we could – we could come up with a plan.” He's babbling, the words falling from his mouth like debris from a landslide. “Like, so you could pull, or whatever, if you wanted, so you wouldn't have to sleep with me, but you could still--”

Harry slowly pushes himself up, until he's at Liam's eye level again. “What are you saying, Liam?”

“I mean, I know you said, about the vows, but clearly you don't want me, so – to like, keep you from getting so desperate, we could--” He falls silent at the expression on Harry's face. He thought he'd seen Harry mad before, but this is apocalyptic.

“Oh, so it's all me, is it?” The fury in Harry's voice is barely restrained. “That wasn't you, begging me to suck your dick? Unbelievable, Liam. Un-fucking-believable. I honestly don't know what to say right now. Are you being serious?”

Liam licks his lips, staring at Harry. “I just thought--”

“No, you didn't,” Harry cuts in viciously. “You never do! God, I can't – maybe we should get a divorce, because I don't think this is working for me anymore.”

Liam's heart skips a beat. “Harry, no. We can't – you'll be deported! They'll get suspicious, we could end up in jail, or, or fined, or—”

Shaking his head, Harry rolls out of bed to his feet, walking towards the foot of the mattress where their clothes are still sitting in a messy pile. “I don't care. Every time I start to think that we're finally on the same page, you do something to push me away again. I can't do this anymore, Liam.”

“What are you saying?” Grabbing for the sheet, Liam draws it up over his hips. “Harry, you can't just – we've sacrificed so much already!”

“That's all this is? A sacrifice?” He shakes his head again, bending down to grab his briefs, pulling them back on. “Whatever. I can't be here right now.”

Liam swallows thickly as Harry shoves his feet into his jeans next, jerking them up his legs. “Where are you going to go?”

He can only see half of Harry's face, his tangled hair falling in front of most of it as he ducks his chin, buttoning up his jeans. A bruise is already blooming on his neck from Liam's teeth. “I don't know,” Harry says, barely audible. “I need--” he doesn't say what, just shoves his hair out of his face, turning towards the door.

Liam watches him go, his heart lodged in his throat.

-

It takes less than an hour for his phone to buzz with a text. Liam scrambles for it, digging his hand between the couch cushions where it's fallen while he watched old reruns of _Full House_ with the volume turned low, trying to focus on anything that wasn't Harry's words echoing in his head.

The text is from Niall, and Liam almost drops his phone back down to be swallowed by the couch before he reads the actual message.

_Whatd you do to harry bro. Ive never seen him like this_

Liam's stomach rolls unpleasantly. He takes a few deep breathes, sucking air in sharply through his nose, before he types out a reply.

_Like what???_

Niall doesn't immediately reply. A minute or two go by, and Liam sends another message, followed by a third.

_Niall like what. Tell me whats going on._

_Niall pls_

He waits for a response, but when two minutes drag into twenty, he starts to think he isn't going to get one. It's barely ten thirty, but he's completely wrung out. Climbing shakily to his feet, Liam pads to the shower, turning it as hot as he can bear before stepping under the spray. He scrubs himself from his head to his toes, but it doesn't matter. The guilt and worry eating away at his insides aren't the sort of thing you can wash down the shower drain.

After Liam towels off, he throws on a pair of boxers that could belong to either of them, and his favorite t-shirt. Niall still hasn't texted back when Liam returns to the couch, and he settles in to wait.

He doesn't mean to fall asleep.

-

Liam's alarm is an incessant droning, buzzing loudly in his ear. He slaps at it to make it stop, but it just keeps going, and going, and going. Cracking open his eyes, it takes Liam a minute to orient himself. He's not in bed with a sleep-warm Harry next to him. He's on Louis' gross couch, his phone vibrating near his cheek.

His phone, not his alarm. Liam sits up so fast his head spins.

It's Louis calling him, and he fumbles to answer before it goes to voicemail. “Lou? What's--”

“You need to get here now, Liam,” Louis says. Liam's never heard him sound so serious in his life.

Pressing the phone closer to his ear, Liam asks, “What? Where – where are you?”

“I'm--” his voice goes muffled as he pulls the phone away from his mouth. “St. Luke's. Emergency room.”

“ _What?_ Louis, who--”

“It's Harry.”

Liam hisses like he's been sucker punched, his stomach dropping like a stone. “What happened? Is he okay?”

“I don't know, he was with Nick and them, and something – someone ran a red light, hit the cab they were in. They won't tell us anything cos we're not family. Nick's all right, he's here with us in the waiting room, but Harry, it's – I think it might be bad. We need you to get here _now_ , Liam.”

He hangs up before Liam can ask anything else.

Scrambling off the couch, Liam pulls on the first pair of jeans he finds crumpled on the floor, whatever sweater is hanging over the back of the chair. He takes a step towards the door, then turns back to his room, stopping only long enough to dig through his top dresser drawer, pulling out the manilla envelope that's been shoved to the back since he moved in.

Then he's out the door, hailing the first cab he sees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> spoilerly warnings for this chapter: mention of a car accident with strongly implied injury. 
> 
> as always, i live for comments/feedback. you can also message me on [tumblr](http://www.moondoggiestyle.tumblr.com)!
> 
> next chapter should be up on schedule :)


	8. in which harry lets his guard down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> massive, massive thank you to onewasturning and scottinski, who have kept me on track and reassured me with each new chapter <33
> 
> some warnings for this chapter: mentions of a car accident, and non-graphic discussions of injury/treatment. more specific notes about this at the end if you're unsure about anything! also, i fudged some HIPAA laws re: who can be informed of patient info for reasons of plot ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

Liam rips open the cab door before it's even rolled to a complete stop, shoving a few bills towards the driver to cover his fare as he hits the pavement at a near run. The automatic doors beneath the glaring red _St. Luke's Emergency_ sign whoosh open, and it doesn't take more than a quick scan of the room to spot his friends.

Nick's lanky form is folded into a chair, his head bowed, while Niall sits stoically next to him, still as stone. Louis pacesback and forth in front of them, his hands clasped behind his back. When he turns Liam's way, glancing up and catching sight of him, he stops short.

“Liam.” He practically throws himself at Liam, hugging him hard, face buried in Liam's neck. “Oh, thank god you're here. I don't know – they won't tell us fucking _anything_.”

Liam hugs him back on autopilot. Over Louis' shoulder, Nick glances up, slowly pushing to his feet. He looks rough; a scrape just below his hairline already bandaged up and twin bags beneath each eye a bruised purple, dark against his pale face.

“You made it,” he says, voice hoarse. Niall stands up abruptly, but he walks away from them, suddenly intensely preoccupied with examining the hospital's collection of brochures. Louis finally pulls back, scrubbing his hands over his face.

“What--” Liam starts to ask, then swallows against the lump in his throat. “Is he…?”

“He's going to be fine,” Nick says, but he sounds shaky, unsure. “He was – when the paramedics first came, he was awake and talking a little, but his arm – it looked pretty bad. I think he must've been in shock. They let me ride in the ambulance with him, doped him up pretty good, but when we got here they wheeled him off, and now they won't tell us anything.” Nick pulls his hand through his hair with agitation. It's clear from the way it's sticking up wildly that it's not the first time tonight he's done it. “His cell's going straight to voicemail.”

“I thought… wasn't he with Niall?”

Nick shakes his head. “I dunno. Maybe earlier? He met up with us at my place. We were just going to go out for a drink or two, cos he said he wanted to get his mind off things.”

Guilt twists Liam's stomach, but Nick doesn't seem to notice, adding, “Daisy and Pixie were coming out with us, too. They're outside with Zayn – think they all needed a smoke break.”

Liam hadn't even seen them when he came in, but then he'd been pretty focused. With a lurch, he realizes he was the last one to arrive. Pressing down the fountain of emotions ready to boil over, he nods, asking, “So we're just stuck waiting on an update?”

Twisting his wrist around, Nick glances down at his watch. It's cracked, the glass splintered into the thin lines of a spiderweb. Liam doesn't think about what Harry's arm must've looked like. “We've been trying to reach Anne, to see if she can talk to the doctors, but it's still really early over there,” Nick says. “If she calls us back...”

“Right.” Liam nods. That's smart, trying to get a hold of Anne. But Liam can't wait another second. “I'm going to – I'm going to go talk to the nurse, see what I can find out.”

“We already said, they won't tell us anything cos we're not family,” Louis reminds him sharply. His mouth is pinched with worry, so Liam doesn't take his tone personally. Niall's still busy reading aboutall the signs you could have diabetes, or maybe just trying to win a staring contest with the wall. Liam has no idea what Harry told him before he left for Nick's, but he guesses it was nothing good.

“I know,” he tells Louis, wrestling the crinkled manilla envelope from his pocket. He walks to the nurses' station, turning his back to his friends, and pretends that his hand isn't shaking.

“Excuse me,” he says, and the nurse glances up at him over a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. “I wanted to know if there's any updates on a patient here? Harry Styles? He was in a car accident and the paramedics brought him in, and--”

“I'm sorry, dear,” she says patiently. “But we can't release any medical information about a patient unless you're a family member.”

Liam takes a deep breath. The nurses station isn't all that far from where his friends are waiting, and Liam's sure they can hear every word. “I'm his husband,” he says. There's nothing but silence behind him.

The nurse blinks, surprised. “His husband,” she repeats.

Placing the manilla envelope on the counter, Liam slides it over to her. “The marriage certificate, if you need proof, or whatever.”

Pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose, she says, “That won't be necessary. You can come with me, Mr…?”

“Payne.”

She stands up, and her pink scrub pants match the tiny pink elephants dotting her shirt. “This way.”

Liam follows her, not daring to turn around. His pulse is thrumming, palms clammy. Everyone knows now, and it doesn't even matter, because Harry might not be okay.

Swiping her badge over the keypad, the nurse opens the door to the ER, leading Liam inside. The last thing he hears before the door swings shut behind them is Louis' incredulous voice asking, “What the hell did he just say? Are they actually _married_?”

-

He's handed off to another nurse in the ER bay, who walks briskly, clipboard in hand. She takes him past curtained off rooms, bustling with nurses and doctors, and through another door to a quieter corridor that Liam assumes leads to the rest of the hospital. He's not sure if it's a good sign or not.

“He's just getting out of surgery,” the nurse says, foot tapping impatiently as she jabs at button for the lift.

“ _Surgery_?” Liam repeats. He has to brace one hand on the wall to keep himself upright.

Glancing back down at her chart, she says, “He had a compound fracture in his right arm that required an open reduction and internal fixation, which – oh, honey, are you okay?”

“I'm fine,” Liam manages. It's just that his knees might buckle at any moment. He grits his teeth. “Totally fine. I don't, um – can you just tell me if he's all right?”

Giving Liam a warm smile, the nurse squeezes his wrist just as the lift doors slide open. “He'll be right as rain once he's healed up. I'll take you up to his floor, and they'll direct you from there, all right? He should be waking up from the anesthesia soon.”

Liam doesn't remember the lift ride, or the face of the person who directs him to Harry's room once he reaches the right floor, giving him a brief synopsis of Harry's injuries and treatment. Liam doesn't remember anything except for the way his chest tightens when he finally reaches the door to Harry's room.

He looks small in the narrow hospital bed, a crisp white blanket covering him from his toes to his chest. He's so, so still. After a moment, though, Liam sees the shallow rise and fall of his chest, and he forces himself to walk over to the bed, sinking down in the plastic chair next to it.

Harry's as banged up as Nick, a few scrapes and cuts on his forehead and cheek, dark bruises mottling his arm before it disappears into a thick cast. With gentle fingers, Liam reaches out, brushing a strand of hair away from Harry's face.

It's only a few minutes, or maybe an eternity, before his lashes flutter. Liam grabs his left hand, thumb rubbing softly over Harry's knuckles, as Harry slowly blinks his eyes open. It takes him a moment to focus, gaze landing on Liam's face.

“Liam?” he croaks, then coughs, wincing a bit. There's a pitcher of water and a stack of little cups on the table next to the bed, and Liam pours some for Harry, helping him sit enough enough to take a few sips.

“What?” Harry manages to ask once he's managed to swallow down a bit of water, and even that single word is slurred.

“You're in the hospital, babe,” Liam tells him, grabbing Harry's hand again. He can't stop touching Harry with his free hand, combing back his hair, brushing his fingers over Harry's cheek, his forehead. Reassuring himself that Harry's fine. He's okay. He's _alive_. Harry presses into the touch, eyes half lidded.

“You were in a car accident,” Liam continues. “Banged your poor arm up. Had us all worried sick.”

“Sorry,” Harry breathes. He looks like he's struggling to keep his eyes open. There's an IV drip off to the side, Harry's good arm bandaged where the needle's inserted. Liam's careful not to bump it. The nurse who pointed out his room warned him that Harry would be out of it, the pain meds already kicking in.

“Nothing to be sorry for, sweetheart. I'm just glad you're okay.” Leaning down, Liam kisses his temple, then the corner of Harry's mouth. There's so much more he wants to say. Harry squeezes his fingers once before his grip goes slack, already asleep again.

Liam watches him for awhile; the way his ribcage slowly expands with each inhale, the scrapes and bruises that mar his skin. Harry's palm is warm and dry against his, and Liam lets his hand go with reluctance, stepping out into the hall.

He calls Zayn, because he figures he's least likely to be yelled at with Zayn on the other end of the line. Zayn picks up on the first ring.

“What the hell, Liam?”

Closing his eyes, Liam leans back against the wall just outside Harry's open door. “Harry's fine. Broke his arm pretty bad and had to have surgery to put some pins in, but he's asleep now. They'll release him tomorrow sometime – well, today technically, I guess – if his vitals are good.” Liam thinks that's everything the nurse on this floor told him. It was hard to focus on anything that wasn't getting to Harry.

“Oh, thank god,” Zayn says. Louder, to the boys, he says, “Liam says he's gonna be fine. Needed arm surgery, but he's in recovery now.”

There's a scuffling noise, and some muffled conversation Liam can't quite pick up. Then Louis comes on the line, and Liam slides down the wall until he's crouched, forehead to his knees.

“For the record, I'm glad Harry's okay, because I am going to kill you both. What the fuck, Liam? Tell me you lied to the nurse, that you were just bluffing your way in.”

Liam's hand is damp with sweat, the phone slipping in his grip. Pressing it harder against his ear, he says, “It wasn't a bluff.”

The admission only shocks Louis quiet for a moment. “I don't get it. How did you fail to mention to all of us that you and Harry got married? Niall says you two had some big fight tonight, and then you drop _this_? If this is your idea of a prank--”

It's pushing two in the morning, and Liam's wearing his exhaustion like a second skin. He can't think of a single plausible lie to tell Louis. “Not a prank. I don't – it's a long story, Lou. We never meant--” He sighs raggedly. “Can we talk about it in the morning? I just want to be with Harry right now.”

There's another tense moment of silence before Louis says, “Fine, but don't think you're weaseling your way out of an explanation in the morning, Liam.” He hangs up before Liam can respond.

Pushing slowly to his feet, Liam goes back to Harry's room, settling in the uncomfortable plastic chair. Harry hasn't moved, still snoring softly, and Liam reaches for his hand again, pressing a kiss to his knuckles.

-

A soft touch on his face pulls Liam from sleep, and when he cracks open his eyes, Harry's watching him with an unreadable expression, fingers still brushing against Liam's skin. Liam sits up, wincing at the soreness in his muscles from sleeping slumped over half the night. His jaw cracks with a yawn, and he rubs a hand over his face, like if he tries hard enough, he can scrub the exhaustion away.

“Sorry,” he says. Sunlight filters in through the window, spilling into the room. “I didn't mean to sleep so late.”

Harry looks just as bruised as he did the night before, but at least there's some color in his cheeks this morning. “It's barely 8am.”

Liam doesn't say he wanted to wake up before Harry did, so he could reassure him again that he was okay the second his eyes opened. He yawns again, covering his mouth with his hand.

Harry shifts his legs beneath the blanket, wincing a little. He's still looking at his feet, twin lumps under the covers, when he asks, “Why are you here?” He doesn't even sound mad, just tired.

Fingers running along a thread in the blanket, Liam clears his throat a few times. “They wouldn't let – they have a strict family only rule here, so the boys were stuck in the waiting room. I didn't want you to be all alone. I should probably, um, let you know. When I told the nurse, that we were married, or whatever. The boys, um. They heard.”

Harry doesn't immediately respond. When Liam risks a glance at his face, he still can't tell what Harry's thinking.

With courage he wasn't sure he had in him, Liam slides his hand along the mattress until his fingers find Harry's, linking them together. When Harry doesn't pull away, he manages to push the words out that have been sitting on his tongue since last night.

“I, um. I wanted to add that I'm sorry, about our fight, and that I don't – god, you scared me so bad, Harry. I know things between us are kind of complicated right now, but you mean a whole lot to me, okay. And I just. I wanted you to know that.” He address the words to their clasped hands, not quite enough bravery in him to look Harry in the eye.

“Liam.”

Taking a deep breath, Liam forces himself to look up and meet Harry's steady gaze. Harry's mouth curves up, just a little. Just enough. “I'm glad you came.”

-

Liam busies himself going to the hospital cafeteria when the nurse comes in to check Harry's blood pressure and things, poking and prodding at him. He doesn't have much of an appetite, but he fixes himself a cup of coffee, adding enough creamer and sugar to get his blood buzzing. His phone's dead so he can't text the boys an update, but the last message he got from Zayn said they all planned to head home last night, knowing that Harry was okay. Liam can update them once he's gotten Harry back home and they've both had a nap.

After he's wasted a good twenty minutes, Liam refills his coffee, grabbing a second one for Harry before taking the lift back up to his floor.

Harry's looking marginally more chipper, and his face lights up when he spots the coffee in Liam's hand. He takes a deep gulp the second Liam hands it over, sighing in satisfaction.

“Good news,” he says, lowering the styrofoam cup to rest on his blanketed legs. He's propped up against a few pillows, sitting upright, with his broken arm cradled protectively against his chest in a sling. “They're releasing me this morning, as soon as my blood work comes back.”

“That's great news,” Liam agrees, settling back in the uncomfortable plastic chair. “Are you feeling okay, then?”

Harry shrugs his good shoulder. “I feel like I've been hit by a truck.”

Liam chokes on a mouthful of coffee, and Harry's mouth twists into a ghost of his usual bright grin. “Harry, that's--”

“Too soon? It was my accident, I think I should get to decide when I can joke about it.”

He's not wrong, but all the same – “You don't know what it was like, getting that phone call. I think you took a few years off my life, mate.”

Harry's mouth folds into an immediate frown. “Hey, no, I never meant – I'm sorry, Liam. I didn't even think what it would be like, being on your end.”

“I'm just happy you're okay,” Liam tells him firmly. Watching the morphine drip in Harry's IV is suddenly fascinating, requiring all of Liam's attention.

Harry bumps his knuckles gently against Liam's chin, and Liam reluctantly looks at him. “I promise, I'm just fine,” Harry says, voice soft. When he smiles, Liam can almost look past the scrapes and bruises marring his face. “Just as long as they keep the morphine coming.”

Liam licks his lips. “We could probably steal a bag. I mean, we're already wanted criminals.”

Harry's laugh is more a quiet huff of air than anything, but that's probably good, considering his bruised ribs. “I think I've had enough of the crime life, thanks.”

-

In the end, Harry gets discharged with a prescription for painkillers, instructions to ice his arm if there's pain or swelling, and a follow up appointment in a week before he's cleared to start any physical therapy.

The same nurse who checked his vitals earlier sees them off, offering Harry a wheelchair for the trip down to the hospital's front doors. She looks a little sad to see him go.

“I'm fine,” Harry insists. “Broke my arm, not my legs.” His smile still isn't at its full wattage yet, but the nurse melts a little all the same. Liam drapes an arm over Harry's shoulder gently, careful not to bump his bad arm.

“I'll help him if he needs it,” he says pointedly. “Since I'm his husband.”

The look on Harry's face is a mix between amusement and something that Liam can't decipher, but he lets Liam lead him away without protest. For all his insistence on walking, he's shaky on his feet, face a little pinched as they reach the first floor. They get as far as the main doors of the hospital, Liam's hand already up to wave down a cab, when Harry's face goes white.

“Do you think could, um. Maybe not a cab?”

Liam drops his hand. “Oh my god, I'm sorry, I didn't even think. 'Course we don't have to take a cab.”

The problem is that the nearest subway station is almost three blocks away, and Harry's breathing is labored by the time they make it there. He leans his weight against Liam as they wait for the train to arrive, face pale and damp with sweat, despite the chilly air. Liam wraps his arm around Harry's waist, careful not to jostle him, and just holds on.

It's midday, not very crowded, so they're able to find seats when the train finally pulls up. Harry sinks down like his legs have given out, and he turns his face to tuck it into Liam's neck, still breathing harder than normal. Liam pets at his hair, murmuring nonsense reassurances.

When they reach their stop, Harry looks like he might cry, but he just grits his teeth, sticking close to Liam's side as they make their way off the train and up the subway steps.

“I'll get you settled in at home and then get your prescription filled, all right? You should be able to take your first dose by then.”

“I want to take it now,” Harry says, petulant. The bags beneath his eyes are as purple as his bruises, dark compared to how pale and bloodless his face is. It's the longest two blocks Liam's ever walked. By the time they make it up the stairs, Harry's out of breath again, his forehead shiny with sweat.

Liam guides him straight to bed, tugging off Harry's coat as gently as he can manage, followed by his boots and jeans.

“You okay?” he asks, as Harry sinks back against the pillows, eyes closed.

“Hurts,” he mumbles.

Sitting on the edge of the mattress, Liam brushes the hair back from Harry's damp face. His skin is clammy. “Where?” Liam presses.

“Everywhere.”

Liam doesn't think he's exaggerating. “Sit tight, okay? I'm going to run to the pharmacy quick, get your meds. I'll leave a glass of water next to the bed for you, all right?”

Harry murmurs his assent, and Liam follows through on his promise, filling up a glass of water and placing it on the table. Harry's prescription in hand, he turns to leave. He doesn't make a clean escape. Louis' in the living room when he steps back through the bedroom door, and Liam startles badly.

“Oh,” he says, one hand on his pounding heart. “Sorry, I wasn't expecting you.”

Louis cocks an eyebrow, one ankle propped on his knee as he lounges back on the couch. “No? This is still my flat too, you know.”

“I know. I know that.” Liam lets out a sharp breath. “I have to go to the pharmacy, pick up Harry's pain meds. If you – he'd probably like the company, until they get in his system.”

Nodding, Louis drops the attitude, sitting forward at once. “Yeah, 'course I'll sit with him.”

“Thank you,” Liam tells him, reaching for his coat. He's got one arm through the sleeve before Louis speaks again.

“But, Liam?”

Liam turns back towards him, already halfway to the door. “Yeah?”

Louis levels him with a serious look. “Don't think you can avoid me forever.”

-

He has to go to two different Walgreen's to find one with the right meds in stock, his leg jiggling as he waits for the pharmacist, and he all but runs back to their flat once it's finally filled. The second Liam makes it through the door, Harry's pills in hand, Louis is bounding out, snagging his coat on the way.

“Where are you going?” Liam asks him, surprised.

“He's your husband,” Louis throws back. “ _You_ take care of him.” Then he's out the door, down the hall towards the stairwell before Liam can stop him.

Cautiously, Liam picks his way to the bedroom. Harry doesn't look good. His face is pale, pinched with pain and shiny with sweat. “Liam,” he whines, the second Liam steps into the room. “I'm dying.”

“You're not dying,” Liam says. Shrugging off his coat, Liam pulls the pill bottle out of its bag, quickly uncapping it and pouring two capsules into his hand. “Take these,” he instructs, dropping them in Harry's palm. He hands Harry the glass of water he left behind earlier, and Harry swallows the pills down obediently.

“Still hurts,” he says, once he's had a few more sips of water. He looks at Liam with big, sad eyes.

Liam sighs. “I know, sweetheart. It'll take a bit for them to kick in, okay?”

“Don' wanna wait,” Harry mumbles, and Liam changes tactics.

“What'd you do to Louis, huh?” he asks, perching on the edge of the mattress. Like a bad habit, his fingers find their way into Harry's hair, petting the soft strands back. Harry practically purrs, and Liam clears his throat. “He practically ran out the door.”

“I didn't do anything,” Harry immediately protests, but it lacks his usual passion. He must be really hurting. Liam's fingers slow, and Harry nudges against Liam's hand, breath escaping in a little sigh when Liam resumes his petting. “His hands aren't as nice as yours,” Harry adds, eyes closed.

“Do you want to watch a movie or something?” Liam blurts out, and one of Harry's eyes cracks open, a hazy green. “To, like. Distract you, until the meds kick in.”

There's a very heavy silence as Liam remembers how things ended the last time movie watching was suggested, and god, was it just last night that Harry's mouth was on him? His face feels hot all of the sudden, but Harry just says, “Okay.”

Pushing to his feet, Liam tracks down his laptop – still in his backpack where he left it yesterday – then trades his jeans for a pair of sweatpants before climbing back onto the bed, careful not to jostle Harry. He doesn't seem to mind, pressing immediately into Liam's side, cheek resting on Liam's shoulder.

“What do you want to watch, then? Something on Netflix?”

“Don't care,” Harry says.

Liam scrolls for a bit before settling on _Friends_. It seems like a safe option, and Harry doesn't protest. His left side is pressed against Liam, right arm cradled protectively in its sling. Liam shifts a little, trying to get comfortable, and winds up with his arm around Harry.

They make it through an episode and a half before Harry's asleep, snoring into Liam's shoulder. He's a dead weight against Liam, warm and heavy, and it takes another episode before Liam finally extracts himself, tucking the blanket around Harry.

He leaves the bedroom door cracked so he'll hear if Harry wakes up and calls for him. It's already late afternoon, and he still needs to finish the paper he abandoned the night before, and email his professors about the classes he missed today. There're dirty dishes stacked up in the sink, an overflowing laundry basket in his room, unanswered texts on his phone, and they're only days away from the second interview.

Liam sinks down on the couch, head in his hands, and just breathes for awhile.

-

He doesn't realize he's fallen asleep until he jerks awake to a dark apartment. The door to his and Harry's room is still cracked open, the gap between the edge of the door and the doorway a thin black line. Louis' door, however, is wide open. A gold bar of light falls across the floor, split in two by Louis' shadow as he stands in the doorway.

“Shouldn't you be taking care of your husband?” he asks, leaning one shoulder against the doorframe. His tone is neutral, but that's twice now he's dropped the 'H' word. Liam is immediately on guard.

“He's asleep. Don't want to wake him up.” He clears his throat, still scratchy from his nap. “I, um. Forgot to thank you before, for sitting with him.”

Snorting, Louis says, “I'm not a monster, you know. He's a terrible patient, for the record, but he's still one of my best mates.” He might be looking at Liam, or right through him. His face is all shadows. “I thought you both were.”

“Louis--”

“Why didn't you tell me?”

Liam's stomach turns to stone, and he still can't think of a single plausible excuse. “I don't know,” he says at last, staring at his hands.

Louis sounds incredulous. “You don't know? Seriously, that's the best you've got?”

Licking his lips, Liam says, “Well, it's – I didn't mean to.”

Louis shakes his head, the light behind him a golden silhouette, glancing off his hair like a halo. There was a time the sight would have made Liam's throat catch, but that was before he knew what it was like, to truly want something he couldn't have. The torch he used to deny that he carried for Louis is the weak light of a flickering candle. It's nothing at all compared to the raging fire Harry's lit in him.

“So you don't know, or you didn't mean to? Those are two different things, Liam.”

Liam closes his eyes. He never asked, if Harry saw the crash coming. If he had the chance to brace for impact. He doesn't know if it hurts less, if the pain is inevitable either way. “It's hard to explain,” Liam says, and braces himself.

“Yeah?” Louis' tone isn't neutral anymore. “Just being honest mate, I don't think you're trying all that hard.”

Liam swallows. “I'm sorry.”

“Whatever. Forget it.” He turns to go back in his room, and Liam's sure the only reason he doesn't slam the door behind him is because Harry's still asleep. Somehow, the finality of the quiet click as it shuts is worse.

-

Liam tosses and turns the rest of the night, the couch cushions beneath him lumpy and uncomfortable. He can't shut his racing mind off, and when he does sleep, his dreams leave him feeling restless and unsettled, though he can't remember any of them when he wakes up.

His mouth is dry when he finally rolls to his feet come morning, rubbing at his gritty eyes. He stumbles to the kitchen for a glass of water, and pulls up short.

Harry's standing at the sink, wearing only a pair of boxers, trying to stick his bowed head beneath the faucet.

“Um,” Liam says from the doorway, and Harry jerks, nearly hitting his skull against the faucet as he straightens up. Half his hair is plastered to his head, completely soaked, while the rest sticks up in sleep-rumpled tufts. “What are you doing?”

“I smell like hospital,” Harry says, mouth twisted into a frown. “I can't shower cos of the--” he gestures to his broken arm, immobilized in its cast and sling. “Did my best to get clean with a flannel, but my hair, I can't – it's too hard, with one arm. I'm getting water everywhere.”

He really is. It's splashed onto the counter, the floor, dripping down Harry's bare chest before he pats it dry with a towel, scowling darkly. He still doesn't look steady on his feet, and the dark purple of his bruises have started to lighten up around the edges to greens and yellows, making him look even more battered.

Padding to the kitchen, Liam grabs a chair, dragging it over to the sink. “Sit down,” he instructs.

Harry eyes him suspiciously. “Why?”

“Why do you think?” Liam asks, exasperated. Louis was right about one thing; Harry really is the worst patient. Demanding and needy when there's not a thing Liam can do to help, and resistant when it's offered. “Just sit, babe.”

Reluctantly, Harry sits. The back of the chair is pressed flush to the cabinet beneath the sink, and Liam stands at Harry's side to reach the faucet, turning the water to hot and testing the temperature with his fingers.

“Okay,” Liam says once he's satisfied. “Lean your head back.”

Eyes falling shut, Harry leans his head back a bit. He doesn't protest when Liam places his fingers on Harry's temple, guiding his head under the flow of water to wet his hair evenly. Liam wore his hair longer when he was a teenager, but never to Harry's length, hanging down past his shoulders. It's a weird sensation, running his fingers through the long strands to make sure the water's reached all of it. Harry doesn't seem to mind, letting Liam turn his head this way and that, sighing a little when Liam rubs his fingers over Harry's scalp.

Harry came prepared, both a bottle of shampoo and conditioner sitting next to the sink. The conditioner is Harry's expensive salon brand that Liam can't pronounce, but the shampoo is Liam's, straight from the local grocery shelf. He doesn't comment on Harry's selections, just squirts a bit into his palm, lathering it into Harry's hair.

“You could be, like,” Harry says suddenly, startling Liam a little, “a professional hair washer. Your fingers, Liam.”

“I suppose it's not too late to drop out of college and go to beauty school,” Liam agrees, and the corners of Harry's mouth tick up into the echo of a smile. It feels like a victory.

It takes some effort to wash the shampoo from Harry's hair, Liam rinsing it over and over, but for once in his life, Harry sits still, his chin in the air, his pale throat bared. There's only one bruise on his neck, and the teethmarks give it away as Liam's work. He can't find it in himself to feel guilty.

When Liam finally reaches for the conditioner, Harry opens his mouth again, licking his pink lips. “You have to, like. Comb it through to get the tangles out.”

“Long hair is so much work,” Liam says, applying the conditioner to Harry's hair. As instructed, he starts to comb it through with his fingers, working through the snarls as gently as he can. “But yours is marvelous, Harry, it really is. I hope you never cut it.”

This time, a full blown smile curls Harry's mouth, dimples carving his cheeks. “Yeah? Was thinking I'd donate it someday.”

“Oh, well. That'd be nice of you, I suppose.” He frowns at a particularly tangled knot of hair, trying to tug his fingers through. Harry's breath hitches, and Liam says, “Oh, sorry. Did I hurt you?”

“'m fine,” Harry says, voice a little gruff. Even more gently than before, Liam works in the conditioner in until he can smooth the tangle out, running his fingers through the soft strands again and again until they glide easily.

“I think I might want to keep it long for a while yet,” Harry says after a moment. He sounds half asleep, like he could nod off right there.

Liam doesn't say anything. He works his fingers carefully through all the tangles, and when he finally shuts the water off, his fingertips have gone wrinkled and prune-like. Grabbing the towel Harry left on the counter, he starts to rub Harry's hair dry, enough so that it won't drip everywhere, or get his cast wet.

When Liam's done, Harry blinks open his eyes slowly, like he's coming out of a trance. He rolls his neck to the right, then the left, before running his own hand through his hair, pushing it away from his face.

“Thanks,” he says quietly, not quite meeting Liam's eye. “I feel, like. Halfway human again.”

“Anytime,” Liam tells him. The worst part is that he means it. He'd give Harry anything, even if it killed him. It might yet. Biting his lip for a second, he adds, “I, um. Sorry again, about what I said the other night. I always end up hurting you, and that's never what I mean to do.”

Harry offers him a tired smile. “I know, Liam. It's fine. We both said things we didn't mean.”

Hope blooms in his chest, but Liam isn't stupid enough to ask which part Harry didn't mean.

He's not suicidal.

-

Worn out, Harry falls back into bed with still-damp hair, asleep before his head hits the pillow. Leaving a glass of water and Harry's pain meds within reach on the bedside table, Liam escapes out the door.

He goes to class, but doesn't remember a word of the lecture afterward. For a change of scenery, he tries the library, and pounds out enough words to hit the required page length for his paper. When he tries to reread what he's written, though, the letters swim on the page. He emails his professor to ask for an extension, then closes his laptop and just sits for a while.

It's dark by the time he gets home. Both bedroom doors are closed, no light at all in the cracks, so Liam tiptoes inside as quietly as he can. He sheds his boots and jeans, trades his flannel top for a worn t-shirt. Harry's asleep still, or maybe again, chest rising and falling gently. Liam pauses long enough to touch his fingertips to Harry's hair, soft and dry now, and Harry's eyes flutter open, glittering in the dark.

“Liam,” he breathes, the word barely more than a sleepy sigh.

“Shh,” Liam says. “Didn't mean to wake you. Go back to sleep.”

He turns to leave, to settle himself on the couch for another restless night, but Harry reaches out and grabs his wrist with surprising strength.

“Don't go,” he says.

Liam hesitates, glancing between Harry's face and the door. “I don't want to bump your arm. What if I hurt you?”

Harry's grip doesn't loosen. “Stay,” he says. “Please?”

There's only one clear choice.

Liam stays.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> additional notes: harry breaks his arm and it's implied to be a serious injury, but there's no explicit details describing the injury itself. discussion of treatment includes surgery and fancy medical terms you can look up if you want the nitty gritty details. i have minimal knowledge on how medical stuff works and did all my research via google, but tried to make it as accurate as possible. sorry for any inaccuracies!
> 
> as always, feedback/comments are hugely appreciated. you can also say hi on [tumblr](http://moondoggiestyle.tumblr.com/)! only one chapter before this thing is wrapped up :):)


	9. in which liam comes clean

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the working title of this chapter was 'in which liam finally pulls his head out of his arse.' no additional warnings, just a bit more angst and a lot more fluff. like, a LOT of fluff. there are also a weird amount of weather/sky references, sorry about that. 
> 
> the massive-est of thank you's to scottinski and onewasturning for holding my hand the whole way and keeping up with this crazy pace, and for catching all of my terrible typos. any remaining mistakes are my own. i also want to thank everyone who read and commented from the start and kept me going. y'all are the real MVPs, and the reason i stayed motivated to finish this thing. thank you <3

By now, Liam should be used to waking up next to Harry. He should be used to the way Harry looks first thing in the morning, eyes puffy with sleep, cheek creased with pink lines from his pillow; the way he always tries to burrow into Liam's side, mumbling, “just five more minutes.”

Liam should be used to sitting across the table from Harry as he sips his tea and Liam loads up his coffee with too much creamer, both of them shoveling breakfast into their mouths before they're late for class. That's one difference this morning, at least. Harry's eating left-handed, frowning down at his spoon as he tries to get his cereal into his mouth without spilling. It's not the most successful of ventures.

The third chair at the table sits empty, but that's not surprising. There's been nothing but silence behind Louis' closed bedroom door all morning. Liam keeps his gaze fixed on his bowl, chasing a Cheerio round and round with his spoon.

He glances up when Harry clears his throat.

“Interview's in two days,” Harry says, sticking his tongue out to catch the milk dribbling off the edge of his spoon. Around a mouthful – well, half a mouthful – of cereal, he asks, “Still feeling up for it?”

The last time Liam brought up the interview, it hadn't ended well. They still haven't really talked about it. Harry's accident has thrown them into this tentative truce, and neither one of them is willing to say anything that might shatter it.

At least, that's why Liam assumes Harry hasn't brought it up. His arm is still immobilized by his sling, though with two restful nights of sleep under his belt since his hospital stay, Harry's looking loads better. All the same, Liam's determined not to put his foot in his mouth for once.

“Sure,” he says, and leaves it at that.

Harry's gaze flicks up towards him, then back down at his uncooperative spoon. He's got milk on his upper lip, and Liam has to stop himself from reaching over the table to wipe it away.

That's the moment it hits him.

He doesn't want to give up mornings sitting across from Harry, watching him make a mess of his food. He doesn't want to give up nights lying next to him, Harry's warm breath ghosting over his skin. He wants all the soft touches that settle him, and the deliberate ones that make his heart race. He wants to be the one who makes Harry laugh, and the one who pulls him close when he's hurting. It's still not enough, but he doesn't want to give up any of it.

But want isn't even the right word. It's more than that.Liam's heart skips a beat at the realization, and it's the freefall of a missed step before you catch yourself, safe after all.

“You okay?” Harry asks. “You look like you've just been hit by a truck.”

Closing his eyes, Liam runs a hand down his leg beneath the table, trying to still his bouncing knee. “You aren't going to let that joke go, are you?”

“I thought for sure it'd be funny by now,” Harry says. Liam can hear the smile in his voice, and he wonders when he learned how to pick out that sound. It must've been sometime in the last few months, but it seems like he's known it forever. “Liam. Seriously. Are you okay?”

When Liam opens his eyes, Harry's looking at him, face creased with concern. The milk is still crusting his upper lip, and this time Liam doesn't stop himself, leaning across the table to wipe it away with his thumb. Harry blinks at him in surprise.

“You had --” Liam gestures to his own mouth. “Milk. I, um. I'm going to be late for class if I don't get going. You'll be okay here on your own?”

Harry stirs his spoon through his cereal. “I'll be just fine, Liam. Promise.”

Chair legs scraping back as he stands, Liam pauses only long enough to duck down and press a quick kiss to Harry's cheek before he's out the door, scooping up his backpack and coat along the way.

-

Liam makes it as far as the stairwell before he has to sit, his knees giving out. He pulls out his phone, scrolling through his contacts, but there's not a single person that he can call.

No one knows the truth. There isn't anyone that he hasn't lied to. Liam's never been more alone.

Drawing his legs in, he drops his head to his folded knees. If there are more embarrassing places than a dingy stairwell to have a complete and total breakdown, Liam can't think of them. He gives himself an entire minute to fall apart, and then he pulls himself back together, wiping at his eyes.

They're dry by the time he makes it out the door of the building.

-

During the chilly walk to campus, Liam talks himself into – and out of – the idea seven or eight times. He sits at the very back of the lecture hall, and he's so unfocused it takes him a few minutes to realize when the class has ended, the room nearly emptied out already.

It's an hour and a half of his life he'll never get back, but Liam's only worry is the phone in his hand. He has a blank message opened, but the words won't come. Lip caught between his teeth, he tries again and again, deleting the wrong words over and over until he gets it right.

He never does. Eventually, he just hits send in frustration.

It takes a long time to get a response. By then, Liam's already walked to the coffee shop, half-melted snow soaking into his boots and the cuffs of his jeans, leaving his feet frozen. He orders a coffee with extra creamer, and settles in to wait at a table in the corner, away from the door that lets in a sharp gust of wind every time it opens.

After half an hour of waiting, Liam starts to lose hope. He checks his phone again, and the text from Louis is still there: a simple _k._ that speaks volumes. Jittery, too much caffeine and sugar in his system, Liam slips his phone back in his pocket, focusing on keeping his bouncing leg still. It's a lost cause.

When there's only a mouthful or two of lukewarm coffee left in his cup, Liam is ready to admit defeat. That's when the bell above the door chimes, and Louis walks in. The relief that floods him quickly evaporates when Niall and Zayn follow on his heels. Liam sits up straighter in his seat as they spot him, picking their way across the shop to his little table.

There aren't enough chairs, and Louis steals one from the empty table next to Liam's, settling in.

“Um,” Liam says, glancing between the three of them. His pulse is racing.

Louis lifts a single brow. “You said you had a confession. I brought the jury.”

Swallowing thickly, Liam runs his damp palms up and down his thighs. “I'm not sure that's how it works. I'm not, like. I'm not actually on trial, here.”

Louis' other eyebrow arches up. “You sure about that, mate?” He leans in, mouth curled viciously, and his eyes narrow when he gets a good look at Liam's face. “Christ, Liam. You look like hell.”

Zayn cuts in before Liam can come up with a response. “Well, I'm not here to judge Liam,” he says, offering Liam a reassuring smile. Niall doesn't say anything at all, just fidgets uncomfortably in his seat. He looks like he'd rather be anywhere else. Liam can relate.

“Okay,” Liam says, licking his lips, mind whirring frantically. “Okay,” he repeats. “I don't, um. Lou, can I talk to you quick?”

Louis doesn't budge. “You got something to say, Liam, then say it.”

This is the price, Liam realizes. This is what it will cost him, to earn Louis' forgiveness. A public admission of guilt.

He wanted to come clean, anyway, he reminds himself. It's not like he doesn't owe Zayn or Niall the truth either. He shifts his weight, and the chair squeaks under him.

It's just the small fact that he's got to betray the one person who matters to him most to do it.

“You don't--” Glancing between the three of them, Liam doesn't see a clean way out. “Look,” he says, focusing on keeping his voice steady. “You have to understand, this isn't just about me. I promised Harry I wouldn't tell.”

Louis cocks his head. “I thought this was _about_ Harry.”

“It is! It – it's complicated.” Liam gulps at his nearly empty coffee. It's gone cold, but it wets his parched throat enough that he can keep going. “I know I've fucked up. I know I owe you – all of you – an explanation.”

He promised Harry that he would keep quiet, that they wouldn't make their friends complicit when so much was on the line. But that was when their marriage was a fraud. The stakes have changed now.

Or, at least – the stakes have changed for Liam. Everything's gotten so complicated, he doesn't know where to start in unraveling the mess. Liam sucks in a deep breath, then slowly lets it out. He's fucked everything up, keeping secrets and telling lies. It's time for the truth. Harry will forgive him, or he won't. At least for once, it'll be real.

“Okay,” he says. “Here's the deal. I'm going to tell you guys everything, okay? The entire truth. But you need to understand, these aren't just my secrets.”

Arms crossed over his chest, Louis' mouth compresses into a thin, flat line. “What's there to understand, huh? That both my best friends lied to me?”

“Lou, let him talk.” This from Niall, quiet but firm. His shoulders are hunched, and it makes him look small and worn down. Or maybe he looks his actual size for once, when he'd normally fill a room with his smile alone.

For the first time, it occurs to Liam that maybe Louis isn't the only one who's been caught in the crossfire. He has to make it right.

“We did lie,” he admits, addressing the words to his hands. His knuckles are red, chapped with cold. “But it wasn't – we never meant to hurt you, okay? I know how shit that sounds, but just – let me explain, before you all make up your mind.”

Liam glances up, and all eyes are on him. He takes a few more deep breaths. They don't quite steady him, but all he can do is plunge ahead. “Harry and I got married back in October,” he starts.

Louis' eyes bulge, and Niall sucks in air sharply through his nose. Even Zayn looks surprised, lips parting silently.

Hastily, Liam adds, “It wasn't – we didn't tell _anyone_. Not even our families. It was – fuck, okay, this is the part that's not mine to tell, but I can't explain unless…” For a second, he closes his eyes, buying himself a moment that's not nearly enough. When he continues, his voice is rusty, every word scraping its way painfully out of his throat. “Harry's student visa was denied for a renewal, and he was facing deportation.”

“What?” Louis nearly yelps, and Liam gives him a pained look.

“I _told_ you, it's not just my secrets.”

“Christ,” he mutters, before Zayn shushes him.

Licking his dry lips, Liam forces himself to say the rest. “Harry found out at the beginning of the year, and he didn't want to tell anyone because he thought it would ruin everyone's good time – shut up, I know. I only found out because I accidentally saw the letter, and I couldn't – it was the only way. The only way,” he repeats, when the words catch in his throat.

Zayn gets it first, the realization slowly dawning, clear as day. “You're an American citizen,” he says. “He could stay without the student visa, if he was married to you.”

Miserably, Liam nods. “We weren't going to tell anyone, just ride it out for the school year and then get divorced, but we got caught. I mean, kind of? They were investigating us, there was this horrible interview, and we – we had to fake it for real, or they were threatening to, to--” He rubs his hand over his mouth, breathing through his nose as he tries to collect himself. There are more embarrassing places than a dingy stairwell to have a breakdown, it turns out.

Niall whistles. “Shit.”

Zayn reaches across the table to rub Liam's shoulder, but Louis is a tougher sell. “I don't get it, though,” he says. “Why didn't you tell us? We would've kept it quiet. We could've _helped_.”

“I'm sorry,” Liam says, voice hoarse. “We didn't want to lie, but it – do you know how terrifying it is, knowing one wrong answer could land you in jail?” He shakes his head. “No. No, there was no way we were making you guys accessories. We agreed on that. This was our mess, and we were going to handle it on our own.”

“You're such an idiot, Liam,” Louis says, but at least he doesn't sound mad anymore. Exasperated, maybe. But not mad.

“I know.” Liam studies his hands. He wonders what it'd be like, wearing Harry's ring on his finger, for all the world to see, rather than on the choke-chain around his neck.

“Why now, then?”

When Liam looks up, Zayn is studying him with a contemplative look on his face. “I mean,” Zayn continues, when Liam doesn't immediately respond. “Are you guys in the clear? Was it finally safe to confess?”

“Um,” Liam says, grip tightening on his nearly empty cup. “Not exactly.”

“So we _are_ accessories,” Louis says. For reasons Liam can't understand, he sounds a bit gleeful about it.

Liam swallows down the last of his coffee. It's ice cold. “No, I – I don't think it's a crime anymore.”

Frowning, Niall asks, “How d'ya figure that?”

“Well,” Liam says. He can't meet anyone's eye, and ends up saying the words to the freckles on Niall's neck. “Because – it's – I'm in love with him.”

For a long moment, no one says anything. “Well, obviously,” Louis says, after it's clear no one else is going to break the silence. “Are you counting that as one of your confessions? Because it doesn't count, not if we all already knew it.”

Liam gapes at him. “Already kn– Louis, don't joke, okay? This is serious. This is a _problem_.”

Exchanging a glance with Niall and Zayn, Louis finally turns his skeptical expression towards Liam. “We'll come back to how obvious your crush on Harold is from space. What I want to right now know is how, exactly, you think it's a problem?”

Liam opens his mouth, then closes it. Thinks on how to put it into words that the boys will understand. Words that make sense to Liam himself. “It was – it started out as an arrangement, you know? I didn't want Harry to get deported, because I thought--” he cuts himself off.

“It wasn't fair,” he settles on instead. “But then, we had to fake it, to tell our families and act like – and I just. I don't want to play pretend anymore. We're young, okay, and I'm not stupid. I wouldn't marry him for real, if we weren't already, but I – it doesn't feel like pretend anymore, for me. It feels like maybe, um. It feels really, really real.”

“Right,” Louis says slowly, like Liam is a particularly dense rock. “That's the part I'm not following? You two act like you're crazy for each other, and that solves your little fraud dilemma, doesn't it? You still haven't pointed out the problem.”

“Weren't you _listening_?” Liam bursts out. “It's not _real_! _None_ of it is real!”

“Yeah, but you just said it yourself, Liam,” Zayn says gently. “You weren't in love with him when this first started, were you? It wasn't real then, maybe. But now? Has it occurred to you that maybe he fell in love with you, too?”

Liam shakes his head. “No, no. He's – it's all been an act, okay. He isn't – if he'd – he would have _said_ something.”

Niall snorts. “The same way _you_ said something?”

That stumps Liam for a moment. “It's different,” he insists.

Leaning forward, Niall props his elbows on the table. “Harry wouldn't tell me what you two fought about that night, but I'm telling you, Liam. I have _never_ seen him look like that. He was, like, proper brokenhearted.” Niall leaves the rest unsaid, but Liam has a sinking feeling he now knows the reason Niall gave him the cold shoulder at the hospital.

“God,” Louis says as Liam slumps in his seat, hiding his face in his hands. “You two idiots are made for each other, honestly. Did it never occur to either one of you to, y'know, just fucking talk to each other?”

“I think what Louis is trying to say,” Zayn cuts in smoothly, “is that maybe you need to come clean to Harry. Tell him how you feel, and find out where he's at. What's the worst that could happen? You're already planning to divorce him when this is over, no? Seems like you've got nothing left to lose.”

“Christ,” Niall says. “You two really are the biggest pair of idiots on the planet.” He's smiling, though, big enough to fill the room.

Liam sniffles, and no one calls him on it. “I really, really missed you guys,” he says, a bit soggily.

“Don't get sentimental on me now, Payno,” Louis warns. His lips twitch, though, and his eyes are doing that twinkling thing, a bluer version of the stubbornly gray sky. “Fuck, lads,” he says. “This is a senior year for the history books, isn't it?”

-

Louis and Niall have to leave for class, but Zayn lingers behind, pulling out his sketchpad while Liam folds a napkin into smaller and smaller triangles. His leg has stopped shaking by the time it's too small and thick for another crease, and Zayn reaches for his pack of cigarettes, tapping one loose.

“Ready to go?”

He lights up as soon as they're outside, hand cupped around the end of his cigarette to shield it from the wind.

“You know, it's funny,” he says on an exhale, blowing out a stream of smoke. “I always thought you were jealous of Harry. But maybe this whole time you've been jealous of Lou.”

Liam doesn't say anything, just zips his jacket up to his chin.

Cigarette between his fingers, Zayn reaches out with his free hand and squeezes Liam's shoulder. “You can do this, Liam. Just tell him the truth, yeah? He'll take it well, I promise you.”

“You can't promise that,” Liam huffs.

Zayn just laughs, then blows a smoke ring in Liam's face.

For a few steps, they walk in a comfortable silence. “You really think I should tell him?” Liam asks, eyes on his feet.

Bumping his shoulder against Liam's, Zayn says, “I really, really do.”

-

The sky remains stubbornly overcast, only patches of faded sunlight peaking through dark gray clouds every now and then. Liam shoves his hands into his coat pockets, fingers curled tight against the cold. Zayn waves as he heads towards the library, leaving Liam alone without a single distraction.

There's nothing standing between him, Harry, and a happily ever after, except for his own doubt.

Liam takes the long way home.

The route takes him past a grocery store, and Liam ducks inside, his boots leaving wet prints behind him as he searches for the soup aisle. Harry's still on his every 4-6 hours med schedule, and nothing short of time will take all his pain away. Chicken noodle soup might help, though.

After chucking a few cans into his basket, Liam wanders up and down a few more aisles. It's not that he's wasting time, exactly, he's just – he's not ready. There's a lot on the line, so much riding on him getting this right.

His feet carry him down the card aisle, and Liam slows to an amble, skimming the different sections. There's the obvious; the birthday and anniversary cards, the wedding and holiday-themed ones. He pauses at the special occasions, pulling a few from the rack, but none are right.

Funnily enough, they don't make a card for this.

Shoving the card back on the shelf, Liam huffs in exasperation. That's when he spots the little floral section at the end of the aisle, colorful bouquets lining a wire stand. He examines the selection carefully, and shudders at the price tag of even the smallest, simplest bouquet. It seems like the kind of thing Harry would like, though. A big, romantic gesture to back Liam's words up.

Roses seem the obvious choice, but Liam worries his lip between his teeth, doubt plaguing him. Then he decides he's over-thinking it, and picks a single red rose that matches his student budget, setting it gently in his basket.

-

When he's halfway home, the sky opens up. The air feels frigid enough for snow, but what hits Liam instead is an icy sort of slush; precipitation that couldn't make up its mind on the way down, and settled for the worst qualities of both. By the time Liam makes it back to the apartment, his cheeks are pink with cold and every inch of him is damp, the freezing rain creeping under the collar of his coat and up the legs of his jeans with icy fingers.

It takes his shaking hands a few tries to get the key in the lock, and when the door finally swings open, Liam squelches his way inside with wet boots. Harry's curled up on one end of the couch zoning out in front of the TV, the volume turned down low, and he straightens up when Liam shuffles through the door.

“Liam, are you okay?” Climbing to his feet, he pads across the floor in thick wool socks. He looks so warm and dry, Liam could weep. “You're soaked through, babe. What were you doing out in this weather?”

“Um,” Liam manages. His fingers aren't quite numb, but they're a little stiff with cold as he holds out his hand, offering Harry the single rose. It doesn't seem like enough, all of a sudden, and Liam wishes he'd splurged and gotten Harry a dozen. At least the heated air in here has warmed him enough that his hands aren't shaking anymore.

Slowly, Harry reaches out and takes the rose with his left hand, fingers curling around the stem as he brings it to his nose to sniff. “Thank you,” he says, but there's a question in his eyes.

“I was going to get you a card,” Liam says, setting his bag of soup on the floor by his feet. “But they don't – Hallmark doesn't have anything for this.”

Dragging a fingertip over the edge of a petal, Harry glances up at him. “It's not our anniversary, is it? Are we celebrating – how long has it been, like, four, five months now?”

“No, it – I mean, yes, it's probably been five months, but that's not – oh, god.” Liam should have left himself out in the cold to freeze. Being an icicle would be so much easier than stumbling his way through the next five minutes. “I don't know how to say this.”

Harry goes still. “Is this about the interview?”

“No,” Liam says, shaking his head. Then he reconsiders. “Well, kind of? It could effect the interview, I guess, but it's. It's bigger than that.”

Harry's still frozen, watching Liam with wide eyes, and Liam gently grabs his wrist. “Maybe we should sit down,” he suggests. The last thing he needs is for his nerves to get the best of him and make his knees give out. Again.

“You're making me nervous here, Liam.” All the same, Harry lets Liam pull him along, perching on the edge of the couch. He's still got Liam's rose in his left hand, his bad arm cradled protectively against his chest.

Grasping Harry's hand with both of his, careful not to prick himself on thorns, Liam rubs his thumb over Harry's knuckles, his touch lingering on his bare ring finger. He forces himself to look up, to meet Harry's eye. “I spent all day trying to figure out how to say this, and I still don't think I've got it right, but, um. I need to try, so. Here goes.”

He licks his lips. “I don't care about the interview, or the marriage, or the green card, or – or any of it. I care about _you_. I'm pretty sure that – no, I _know_ that I'm – I love you, Harry. I'm in love with you.” Before he can lose his nerve, before Harry can say anything and shatter him, Liam's quick to add, “And I'm sorry, if – if that makes things weird or complicated, and I know that this was just supposed to be pretend, but I can't – I had to tell you. I wanted to come clean, because you deserve the truth. Especially, um. Just in case, maybe, you love me back.”

Liam's heart thuds in his chest, slamming against his ribcage as Harry just looks at him, staring blankly. Then all of the sudden, he's dropping the rose and throwing himself at Liam, his good arm wrapping around Liam's neck, pulling him close.

“You fucking idiot,” he says, the words nearly lost as he presses them into Liam's skin. “Of course I love you back. How did you not know that?”

Arms around Harry's back, his cheek pressed to Harry's soft hair, Liam hangs on tight, careful of Harry's cast between them. “You – really?” he chokes out.

“ _Yes_ ,” Harry says, drawing back far enough to meet Liam's eye. He places both his hands on Liam's cheeks, the plaster of his cast rough against Liam's skin. “Yes, Liam, oh my god. You really had no idea?”

“You never _said_ anything!” Liam points out. He can't stop touching Harry, running his palms up and down the soft material of his t-shirt, feeling the firm muscle underneath. Harry doesn't seem to mind, pressing in close, practically crawling into Liam's lap. “We've been pretending since the start. How was I supposed to know that you ever meant it?”

“I asked you, Liam. I _asked_ you if you wanted this.” Harry's face is so close now that he's going out of focus; nothing but a pair of hazy green eyes and a blinding smile.

“I thought you just meant – Harry, I thought you were just making sure I was okay with having sex with you.” Pressing his forehead to Harry's, Liam confesses, “It was – seemed too good to be true, that you wanted me back. That you _loved_ me back.”

Harry kisses him then, just a soft press of lips. “God, Liam,” he says, mouth still close enough that it bumps Liam with each syllable. “I've been yours since that night under the mistletoe.”

Liam's eyes fly open – he hadn't even realized he'd let them slip shut – but all he can see is the dark smudge of Harry's lashes, fanning out across his skin. “Really? That long? And you never said?”

“That's not what you signed up for,” Harry reminds him. “I couldn't – you were so – _fuck_ , Liam. You broke my heart that night. I felt like the worst kind of person, dragging you into this mess.”

Liam's fingers tighten on Harry's shirt, clenching the fabric in his fist. “I'm sorry,” he murmurs. He presses a kiss to Harry's cheek, his jaw, the bow of his lips. “Half the reason I was so upset that night is because none of it was real, you know? You were so great with my family, and it felt so – I think that's the first time I really realized how much I was in over my head.”

“God, we really are idiots,” Harry says, huffing out a laugh. He still hasn't let go of Liam, his good arm wrapped tight around Liam's back, his legs tangled with Liam's. “Okay, new rule, starting right now. We're honest with each other, all right? No matter what.”

Straightening his spine, Liam clears his throat. “Uh, in that case. There's something else you should know.”

“Oh, god. Liam, what--”

“I, um,” Liam blurts it out quick, before he loses his nerve. “I told Louis and the boys, and I'm sorry, I should have asked you first, but – it's not a crime anymore, I don't think, if I'm really in love with you.”

Whatever he's expecting, it isn't the way Harry slides his palm over Liam's cheek, his thumb brushing the corner of Liam's lips. “So I could have told Niall that night, huh?” he asks, mouth tilted up with amusement. “Instead of just crying all over him?”

Liam stiffens. “I made you cry?”

With a wince, Harry bites his lip. “I, uh. Shit. I really didn't meant to bring that up.”

“Christ, Harry.” Liam pulls him in until their mouths catch, and Harry seems happy with the distraction, parting his lips easily for Liam. It's not hard to fall into the kiss; the hot, wet slide of Harry's tongue, the give of his bottom lip as Liam sinks his teeth in, just to hear the way it makes Harry hiss.

When Harry pulls back, though, a hurt noise escaping his throat, Liam goes still.

“No, don't stop, sorry, it's just my arm, it--”

“Shit, shit, sorry--” Liam babbles, leaning back so he's not bumping Harry's arm anymore. Harry holds it against his chest, mouth strained. “God, why do I keep hurting you?”

“I'll double up my dose,” Harry says, determined. He leans back in, nose bumping Liam's. “We'll go steal some morphine from the hospital. I don't care about my stupid arm, I just want--”

“Hey, hey, slow down,” Liam murmurs, rubbing one hand up and down Harry's back. “Easy, sailor. Let me take care of you, okay?” Placing one hand flat on Harry's chest, Liam gently pushes him back against the arm of the couch. “I'll be careful,” he promises. “I'll be so, so careful.”

“Just to be clear,” Harry says, a wicked grin pulling at the corners of his mouth as he reclines back, thighs falling open so Liam can slot between them. “You want to do this because you love me, right?”

Grabbing one of Harry's knees to bend his leg back, Liam carefully lowers himself on top of Harry, careful not to jostle his bad arm. “Oh, fuck off. Yes, okay, yes. Because I love you.”

“Yeah, I'm going to need to hear you say that again.”

“I love you,” Liam says, pressing Harry gently back against the couch. “I love you,” he repeats, his mouth finding Harry's, kissing him deeply. “Love you,” he murmurs, sliding down Harry's chest, pushing his legs further apart. Harry's shirt has ridden up, exposing a slice of his pale belly, and Liam kisses the soft skin there, just above the waistband of his boxers, making Harry whine.

He doesn't say it again, mouth busy with other things, but he thinks Harry gets the message.

-

The morning of the interview dawns with clear skies, the sun creeping in through the open slats in the blinds, painting Harry's face gold.

“Five more minutes,” he mumbles, burrowing into Liam's side.

Smoothing Harry's tangled hair back from his forehead, Liam presses a lingering kiss to his temple. “We gotta get up, babe. Interview today.”

Harry groans, but lets Liam drag him from under the covers.

The nerves begin to build as Liam jumps in the shower, and it takes him twice as long as normal to get dressed, his arms and legs uncooperative. Harry presses up behind him, fully awake now that he's stolen half of Liam's coffee, and wraps his arms around Liam's waist. Batting his hands out of the way, Harry makes quick work of Liam's buttons, smoothing his hands down Liam's chest once he's done.

“It's gonna be fine, love. Nothing to be nervous about,” he murmurs in Liam's ear, kissing the sensitive skin there. It makes Liam's pulse jump for a different reason.

Harry holds his hand the entire subway ride; keeps their fingers entwined the three blocks they have to walk once they reach their stop. The building looks just as imposing as it did the first time they were here, but the knots in Liam's stomach are nowhere near as bad.

When they reach the door, Liam tugs Harry to a stop, and Harry glances back at him, head tilted in a silent question. The silver band on his ring finger glints in the light, and it makes Liam's breath catch, just a little.

“What is it?” Harry asks, brow wrinkled.

“I just wanted to say,” Liam says, tearing his gaze away from the matching ring on his own left hand. He catches Harry's eye and holds on. “That no matter what happens in there, this was worth it. Every second was worth it.”

It's turned into another overcast day, but it doesn't matter. Harry beams at him, brighter than any sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i live for comments/feedback, so please, please let me know what you think!! you can also say hi on [tumblr](http://moondoggiestyle.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> this is the longest thing i've ever written, so thank you to everyone who stuck with it! also, i don't have any plans for a sequel or a timestamp or anything like that, sorry. liam and harry do live happily ever after, but i'll let you imagine how that looks for yourself :)


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